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aphic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


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or  distortion 

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t  dans  le  texte, 
BS  pages  n'ont 


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checked  below/ 
tion  indiqu6  ci-dessous. 

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§ 


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tight  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
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method: 


1 

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4  5 


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L'exomplaira  film*  fut  raptoduit  grAce  A  la 
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premiere  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
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la  darnlAre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
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Un  das  symboles  suivants  appara?tra  sur  la 
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symbole  ▼  signifie  "FIN  ". 


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Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
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1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

N 


POPULAR  NOVELS. 

By  ICay  Agnes  Fleming. 

I.— GUY  EARLSCOUBT'S  WIFE. 
II.— A  WONDERFUL  WOMAN. 
III.— A  TERRIBLE  SECRET. 
IV.— NORRIXE'S  REVENOK 

v.- A  MAD  MARRLAGE. 


"  Hn.  FlemlnK'n  ntorica  are  Browing  mora  and  mora  popu- 
lar every  (lay.    Thi'lr  dclinuntionri  of  clmrnctar, 
lifc-Uko  conversatlonx,  llnKhog  of  wit,  ooo- 
■tnntly  vnryliw  bccikh,  nnd  deeply  In- 
tenwtlng  plotn,  combine  to  plaoo 
their  author  in  the  very 
first  ntiik  of  Modem 
Noveliata" 


AH  pabUihed  onUorm  with  thia  Tolome.    Frioa  fl.TS 
each,  and  aBut/rtt  by  mall,  on  noeipt  of  ivioa,  by 

O.  Vr.  OARLETON  Sn  CO.« 
Now  York. 


'GUY 


NORINE'S    REVENGE, 


AND 


SIR   NOEL'S   HEIR. 


BT 

MAY  AGNES  FLEMING, 

AUTiiuR  or 

"ouY    earlscourt's    wife,"  "a    wonderful    woman," 

"a    terrible    secret,"    "a    mad 

marriage,"    etc. 


*&. 


V: 


\    ,     /o^3V?'»^ 


NEW   YORK: 

G.  W.  Carleton  &  Co.,  PublisherSy 

LONDON:   S.  LOW,  SON  &  CO., 
MDCCCLXXV. 


^'"■^ar-tg,- 


4-TZ 


Copyright, 
O.  W.  CARI.ETON  a  CO., 

I87S- 


John  K.  Thow  &  Son,  Printkrii, 
aoj-aij  Kast  12111  St.,  Nkw  Vokk. 


II 
II 
I\ 

V 

VII 
VII 

I> 
> 

X 

XI 
XII 

xr 

X 

XV 

XVI 
XVII 

xi: 
x: 

XX 

XXI 

XXII 


' 


^ 


\ 


I 


CONTENTS. 

:o: 

NORINE'S    RKVENGE. 

L'HAPTKR.  r\r,m. 

I.— Two  Ulack  Kyes  and  their  Work 7 

II.— A  Wise  Man's  Folly 18 

III. — Mr.  Laurence  Thorndyke 35 

IV. — The  lawyer's  Warning 42 

V.—"  I  will  l)e  your  Wife  " 55 

VI.— Before  the  Wedding 69 

VII. — The  Gathering  Storm 78 

VIII.— Fled 94 

IX.—"  Mrs.  Laurence  " 102 

X.—"  A  Fool's  Paradise  " 109 

X I. — Gone 12a 

XII.— The  Truth 131 

XIII. — Mr.  Liston's  Story 142 

XIV. — A  Dark  Compact 150 

XV.—"  A  Fashionable  Wedding  " 1 59 

XVI. — "  His  name  is  Laurence  Tliorndyke  " 167 

XVII.— A  Letter  from  Paris 178 

XVItL— After  Four  Years 185 

XIX. — "Whom  the  gods  wish  to  destroy  they  first  make  mad  "..  196 

XX. — Norine's  Revenge 211 

XXI. — "The  .mills  of  the  gods  grind  slowly,  but  they  grind 

exceedingly  small 215 

XXII. — "The  way  of  the  Transgressor  is  hard."  225 

XXIII. — "Jenny  Kissed  me." 231 


■n 


"5*i; 


wmm 


VI  CONTENTS. 

SIR    NOEL'S    HEIR. 

CHAPTER.  i-ACB. 

I.— Sir  Noel's  Deathbed 243 

II. — Captain  Everard 252 

III.—"  Little  May  " 262 

IV. — Mrs.  Wcymorc 272 

V. — A  Journey  to  London 283 

VI.— Guy 2S8 

VH.— 'ol.  Jocyln 298 

VIII.— Lady  Th'ctford's  liall 307 

^    IX. — (iuy  Legard 317 

X. — Asking  in  Marriage 325 

XI. — Cn  the  Wedding  eve 334 

XII. — Mrs.  Weymore's  Story 346 

XIII. — "Tliere  is  many  a  slip  " 354 

XIV.— Parted 363 

XV. — After  Five  Years 369 

XVI. — At  Sorrento 373 

XVII.— At  Home 376 

A   DAKK  CONSriRACY 379 

FOR  BETTER  FOR  WORSE 393 


^"^ 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

TWO   BLACK    EYES  AND   THEIR   WORK. 

|HE  early  express  train  from  Montreal  to  Port- 
land, Maine,  was  crowded. 

Mr.  Richard  Gilbert,  lawyer,  of  New  York, 
entering  five  minutes  before  starting  time, 
found  just  one  seat  unoccupied  near  the  door.  A  crusty 
old  farmer  held  the  upper  half,  and  moved  grumpily 
toward  the  window,  under  protest,  as  Mr.  Gilbert  took  the 
place. 

The  month  was  March,  the  morning  snowy  and  blowy, 
slushy  and  sleety,  as  it  is  in  the  nature  of  Canadian  March 
mornings  to  be.  The  sharp  sleet  lashed  the  glass,  people 
shivered  in  multitudinous  wraps,  lifted  purple  noses,  over- 
twisted  woolen  clouds  and  looked  forlorn  and  miserable. 
And  Mr.  Gilbert,  congratulating  himself  inwardly  on  having 
secured  a  seat  by  the  stove,  opened  the  damp  Montreal 
True  Witness,  and  settled  himself  comfortably  to  read. 
He  turned  to  the  leading  article,  read  three  lines,  and 
never  finished  it  from  that  day  to  this.  For  the  door 
opened,  a  howl  of  March  wind,  a  rush  of  March  rain 
whirled  in,  and  lifting  his  eyes,  Mr.  Richard  Gilbert  saw 
in  the  doorway  a  new  passenger. 


8 


NOR /NETS  REVENGE. 


The  new  passenger  was  a  young  lady,  and  the  young 
lady  was  the  prettiest  young  lady,  Mr.  Gilbctt  thought, 
in  that  first  moment,  he  had  ever  seen. 

She  was  tall,  she  was  slim,  she  was  dark,  she  had 
long  loose,  curly  black  hair,  falling  to  her  waist,  z  .J  two 
big,  bright,  black,  Canadian  eyes,  as  lovely  eyes  as  the 
wide  earth  holds.  She  stood  there  in  the  doorway,  faltering, 
frightened,  irresolute,  a  very  picture — the  color  coming 
and  going  in  the  youthful,  sensitive  face,  the  luminous 
brown  eyes  glancing  like  the  eyes  of  a  startled  bird. 
She  stood  there,  laden  with  bundles,  bandboxes,  and 
reticules,  and  holding  a  little  blinking  spaniel  by  a  string. 

Every  seat  was  i  ''ed,  no  one  seemed  disposed  to 
dispossess  themselves,  even  for  the  accommodation  of  youth 
and  beauty.  Only  for  six  seconds,  though  ;  then  Richard 
Gilbert,  rose  up,  and  quietly,  and,  as  a  matter  of  course, 
offered  his  seat  to  the  young  lady.  She  smiled — what  a 
smile  it  was,  what  a  bright  little  row  of  teeth  it  showed, 
dimpled,  blushed — the  loveliest  rose-pink  blush  in  the 
world,  hesitated,  and  spoke  : 

"  But,  monsieur  1 "  in  excellent  English,  set  to  a  delici- 
ous French  accent.     "  But,  monsieur  will  have  no  place." 

"Monsieur  will  do  very  well.  Oblige  me,  mad- 
emoiselle, by  taking  this  seat." 

"  Monsieur  is  very  good.     Thanks." 

She  fluttered  down  into  the  seat,  and  Mr.  Gilbert  dis- 
posed of  the  many  bundles  and  boxes  and  bags  on  the 
rack  overhead.  He  was  smiling  a  little  to  himself  as  he 
did  so  ;  the  role  of  lady's  man  was  quite  a  new  one  in  this 
gentleman's  cast  in  the  great  play  of  Life.  The  grumpy 
old  farmer,  with  a  grunt  of  disapprobation,  edged  still 
further  up  to  the  window. 


•w" 


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shy, 

M 
finds 
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youtl 
face 
heavt 

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the 
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and  h 
all. 
own 
finds 
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He 
hard- 
wom< 
foole 
worn; 


nVO  BLACK  EYES  AND  THEIR  WORK. 


"  Monsieur  can  sit  on  the  arm  of  the  scat,"  suggests  the 
young  lady,  glancing  up  with  a  pretty  girl's  glance — half 
shy,  half  coquettish  ;  "  it  is  so  very  fatiguing  to  stand." 

Monsieur  avails  himself  of  the  offer  immediately,  and 
finds  he  is  in  an  excellent  position  to  examine  that  very 
charming  face.  But  he  does  not  examine  it :  he  is  not  one 
of  your  light-minded,  mustache-growing,  frivolous-headed 
youths  of  three-or-four-and-twenty,  to  whom  the  smiling 
face  of  a  pretty  girl  is  the  most  fascinating  object  under 
heaven. 

Mr.  Gilbert  casts  one  look,  only  one,  then  dra'  s  forth 
the  True  IVilmss  and  buries  himself  in  the  leading 
article.  The  last  bell  rings,  the  whistle  shrieks,  a 
plunge,  a  snort,  and  they  are  rushing  madly  off  in- 
to the  wild  March  morning.  The  young  lady  looks 
about  her,  the  grumpy  farmer  is  between  her  and  the 
window,  the  window  is  all  blurred  and  blotted ;  Mr.  Gil- 
bert is  fathoms  deep  in  his  paper.  She  gives  a  little  sigh, 
then  lifts  her  small  dog  up  in  her  lap,  and  begins  an  ani- 
mated conversation  with  him  in  French.  FroUo  under- 
stands Canadian  French,  certainly  not  a  word  of  English, 
and  he  blinks  his  watery  eyes,  and  listens  sagaciously  to  it 
all.  The  farmer  looks  askance,  and  grunts  like  one  of  his 
own  pigs  j  the  lawyer,  from  behind  his  printed  sheet, 
finds  the  words  dancing  fantastically  before  his  eyes,  and 
his  brain  taking  in  nothing  but  the  sweet-spoken,  foolish 
little  prattle  of  mademoiselle  to  Frollo. 

He  is  thirty-five  years  of  age,  he  is  a  hard-headed, 
hard-working  lawyer,  he  has  a  species  of  contempt  for  all 
women,  as  bundles  of  nerves  and  nonsense,  fashions  and 
foolery.  He  is  thirty-five ;  he  has  never  asked  any 
woman   to   marry  him   in   his   life  ;  he  looks  upon  that 


^\ 


lO 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


foolish  boy-and-girl  idiocy,  called  love,  as  your  worldly-wise 
cynics  do  look  upon  it,  with  a  sneer  and  a  scoff.  Pretty 
girls  he  has  met  and  known  by  the  score — handsome 
women  and  clever  women,  but  not  the  prettiest,  the  hand- 
somest, the  cleverest  of  them  all  has  ever  made  his  well- 
regulated  legal  pulses  beat  one  throb  the  quicker  in  all 
his  five-and-thirty  years  of  life.  Why  is  it  then  that  he 
looks  at  this  little  French  Canadienne  with  an  interest  he 
has  never  felt  in  looking  at  any  of  the  bright  New  York 
beauties  he  has  known  so  long  ?  Simple  curiosity,  no  doubt 
— nothing  more. 

"  She  looks  like  a  picture  I  once  saw  of  Joanna  of  Na- 
ples," he  thought,  "  only  Joanna  had  golden  hair.  I  hope 
the  similarity  to  that  very  improper  person  ends  with  the 
outward  resemblance." 

He  returned  to  his  newspaper,  but  somehow  politics 
and  cable  dispatches,  and  Our  Foreign  Relations,  had  lost 
their  interest.  Again  and  again,  under  cover  of  the  friendly 
sheet,  his  eyes  wandered  back  to  that  fair  drooping  face, 
that  piquant  profile,  those  long  eyelashes,  and  the  rippling 
black  tresses  falling  from  beneath  the  litde  hat.  The 
hat  was  trimmed  with  crape,  and  the  graceful  figure  wore 
dingy  black. 

"  Who  is  she  ? "  Mr.  Gilbert  found  himself  wondering ; 
"  where  is  she  going  ?  and  for  whom  is  she  in  mourning  ? " 

And  then,  conscious  of  his  own  folly  and  levity,  he  pulled 
himself  up,  and  went  back  for  the  dozenth  time  to  the 
True  Witness. 

But — his  hour  had  come,  and  it  would  not  do.  The 
low  French  babble  to  the  dog  rang  in  his  ears,  the  dark 
mignonne  face  came  between  him  and  the  printed  page, 
and  blotted  it  out. 


■^■C 


riVO  BLACK  EYES  AND  THE/R  WORK.        i  j 

"She  is  much  too  young,  and— yes,  too  pretty  to  be 
travelling  alone.  I  wonder  where  is  she  going  ;  and  if  her 
friends  will  meet  her?  Very  imprudent  to  allow  a  child  like 
this  to  travel  alone.     She  hardly  looks  sixteen." 

His  interest  — fatherly,  brotherly  of  course,  in  this 
handsome  child  was  increasing  every  moment.  It  was 
something  not  to  be  explained  or  comprehended.  He 
had  heard  of  such  imbecility  as  "  love  at  first  sight,"  but 
was  it  likely  that  he,  a  man  of  five-and-thirty,  a  lawyci-, 
without  an  ounce  of  sentimentality  in  his  composition 
should  make  an  idiot  of  himself  over  a  French  Cana- 
dienne,  a  total  stranger,  a  bread-and-butter-eating  school- 
girl at  his  time  of  life.  Not  likely.  She  interested  him 
as  a  pretty  picture  or  marble  Venus,  or  other  work  of  art 
might — just  that. 

He  di'  1  not  address  her.  Lawyers  are  not  bashful  as  a 
body.  Mr.  Gilbert  was  not  bashful  individually,  but 
something,  for  which  he  knew  no  name,  held  him  silent 
now.  If  that  grumpy,  over-grown  farmer  were  only  out  of 
the  way,  he  thought,  instead  of  sitting  sulkily  there  star- 
ing at  the  falling  rain,  he  could  no  doubt  find  some- 
thing to  say.  ' 

Fate  favored  him,  his  evil  angel  "  cursed  him  with  the 
curse  of  an  accomplished  prayer."  At  the  very  next  sta- 
tion the  surly  husbandman  got  up  and  left ;  and  the  mis- 
tress of  Frollo,  moving  close  to  the  window,  lifted  those 
two  orbs  of  wondrous  brown  light  to  the  lawyer's  grave 
thoughtful  face,  and  the  sweet  voice  spoke  : 

"Will  monsieur  resume  his  place  now  ?  " 

Monsieur  needed  no  second  bidding.  He  resumed  it, 
threw  aside  his  paper,  and  opened  conversation  in  the 
usual  brilliant  and  original  way : 


. .  M 


'f 


I 


13 


NOR/NE'S  REVENGE. 


"  The  storm  seems  to  increase — don't  you  think  so  ? 
Abominable  weather  it  has  been  since  March  came  in,  and 
no  hope  of  its  holding  up  to  day." 

"  Oh,  yes,  monsieur,"  mademoiselle  answered,  with  ani- 
mation ;  "  and  it  is  such  a  pity,  isn't  it?  It  makes  one  low- 
spirited,  one  can  see  nothing,  and  one  does  like  so  to  see 
the  country  as  one  goes  along." 

"  Was  she  going  far  ?  "  the  lawyer  inquired. 

"  Oh,  very  far !  "  Mademoiselle- makes  a  little  Gallic 
gesture,  with  shoulders  and  eyebrows  and  hands  all  togeth- 
er to  express  the  immensity  of  the  distance. 

"  A  great  way.  To  Portland,"  with  a  strong  accent  on 
the  name  of  that  city.  "  Monsieur  knows  where  Portland 
is?" 

"  Yes,  very  well — he  was  going  there  himself  en  route  to 
New  York.  You,  mademoiselle,"  he  adds,  inquiringly, 
"  are  going  on  a  visit,  prob.ibly  ?" 

Mademoiselle  shakes  her  pretty  head,  and  purses  her 
pretty  lips. 

"  Monsieur,  no — I  am  going  home." 

"  Home  ?  But  you  are  French." 

"  But  yes,  monsieur,  certainly  French,  still  my  home 
is  there.  Papa  and  mamma  have  become  dead,"  the  brown 
eyes  fill,  "  and  Uncle  Louis  and  Aunt  Mathilde  have  seven 
of  their  own,  and  are  poor.  I  am  goin;^  to  mamma's 
relatives,  mamma  was  not  French." 

"  No  ?  "  Mr.  Gilbert  says  in  sympathetic  inquiry. 

"  No,  monsieur.  Mamma  was  Yzn-kee,  a  New  England 
lady,  papa  French  Canadian.  Mamma's  friends  did  not 
wish  her  to  marry  papa,  and  she  ran  away.  It  is  five  years 
ago  since  she  died,  and  papa — papa  could  not  live  without 
her,  and   two  years  after  the  good  God  took  him  too." 


i:mm 


nVO  BLACK  EYES  AND  THEIR  WORK. 


13 


The  tearful  brown  eyes  look  down  at  her  shabby  black 
dress.  "  Monsieur  beholds  I  wear  mourning  still.  Then 
Uncle  Louis  took  me,  and  sent  me  to  school,  but  Uncle 
Louis  has  so  many,  so  I  wrote  to  mamma's  brothers  in 
Portland,  and  they  sent  a  letter  back  and  money,  and  told 
me  to  come.     And  I  am  going — Frollo  and  me." 

She  bends  over  the  little  dog,  her  lips  quivering  like  the 
lips  of  a  grieved  child,  and  the  lawyer's  middle-aged 
heart  goes  out  to  her  in  a  great  compassion. 

"  Poor  little  lonely  child  1  "  be  thinks,  watching  the 
sweet  overcast  face  :  "  I  hope  they  will  be  good  to  her, 
those  Yankee  friends."  Then  aloud.  "  But  you  are  very 
young,  are  you  not,  to  travel  this  distance  alone  ?  " 

"  I  am  seventeen,  and  I  had  to  travel  alone,  there  was 
no  one  to  come  with  me.  My  Uncle  Kent  will  meet  me 
at  Portland." 

"  You  are  Mademoselle  Kent  ?  "  he  says  with  a  smile. 

"  No,  monsieur,  my  name  is  Bourdon — Norine  Kent 
Bourdon. " 

"  Have  you  ever  seen  those  relatives  to  whom  you  are 
going?" 

"  Once.  They  came  to  see  mamma  when  she  was  dead. 
There  are  three — two  uncles  ind  an  aunt.  They  were 
very  kind.     I  liked  them  very  much." 

"  I  trust  you  will  be  happy  in  your  new  home,  Miss 
Bourdon,"  the  lawyer  says  gravely.  "  Permit  me  to  offer 
you  my  card.  If  you  ever  visit  New  York  I  may  meet  you 
again — who  knows  ? " 

The  young  lady  smiles  as  she  reads  the  name. 

"Ah — who  knows  ?  I  am  going  out  as  governess  by-and- 
by.  Perhaps  I  shall  write  to  you  to  help  get  me  a  situation." 

"  What  a  frank,  innocent  child  it  is  1  "  thought  Mr.  Gil- 


^^ri 


Ml 


j 


u 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


bert,  looking  down  at  the  smiling,  trustful  face:  "othei 
girls  of  her  age  would  be  bashful,  coquettish,  or  afraid  of 
a  masculine  stranger.  But  this  pretty  child  smiles  up  in 
my  face,  and  tells  me  her  little  history  as  though  I  were 
her  brother.  I  wish  I  were  her  brother,  and  had  power  to 
shield  her  from  the  hardships  of  life.  Any  service  in  my 
power  I  shall  always  be  happy  to  render  you,  my  dear  young 
lady,"  he  said; "  if  at  any  time  you  apply  to  me,  believe 
me  I  shall  do  my  utmost  to  serve  you." 

■Mademoiselle  Norine  Kent  Bourdon  looked  up  into  the 
grave,  genial  face,  with  soft,  trustful  eyes  that  thanked 
him.  She  could  not  have  defined  it,  but  she  felt  he  was  a 
man  to  be  trusted— a  good  man,  a  faithful  friend  and  an 
honorable  gentleman. 

The  train  flew  on. 

As  the  afternoon  wore  away  the  storm  increased.  The 
trees  rocked  in  the  high  wind,  and  the  ceaseless  sleet  beat 
against  the  windows.  Miss  Bourdon  had  a  novel  in  her 
satchel,  an  j:nglish  novel,  and  she  perused  a  few  pages 
of  this  work  at  intervals,  and  watched  the  storm-blotted 
landscape  flitting  by.  She  made  small  French  remarks  to 
Frollo,  and  she  refreshed  herself  with  apples,  gingerbread 
and  dyspeptic  confectionery.  But,  all  these  recreations 
palling  after  a  time,  and  as  the  darkness  of  the  stormy 
March  day  closed,  drowsiness  came,  and  leaning  her  head 
against  the  window,  the  young  lady  fell  asleep. 

Mr.  Gilbert  could  watch  her  now  to  his  heart's  content, 
and  he  did  watch  her  with  an  interest  all-absorbing,  and 
utterly  beyond  his  comprehension.  He  laid  his  railway 
rug  lightly  over  her,  and  shielded  her  from  all  other  rnale 
eyes,  with  jealous  care.  What  was  it  that  charmed  him 
about  this  French  girl  ? 


tfllKltrrr :«»  ««»¥*•?*■  -1 


rrro  BLACK  EVES  AND  THEIR  WORK. 


15 


He  could  no  more  have  told  you  then  than  he  could  ever 
have  told  you  afterward.  It  was  w  ten,  it  was  Kismet  ; 
Jiis  fate  had  come  to  him  as  it  comes  to  all,  in  unlooked- 
for  form.  She  looked,  the  poetic  simile  came  to  the  unpoet 
ical  mind  of  the  lawyer — like  a  folded  rose,  the  sweetness 
and  bloom  yet  unbrushed  from  the  leaves. 

Mademoiselle  did  not  awake  until  the  train  stopped  ; 
then  she  opened  her  eyes  bewildered.  But  Mr.  Gilbert 
gathered  up  the  boxes  and  bundles,  drew  her  hand  under 
his  arm,  and  led  her  out  of  the  cars,  and  up  to  the  big  noisy 
hotel,  where  they  were  to  stop  for  the  night.  Miss  Bour- 
don took  her  supper  seated  beside  her  friend,  at  the  long, 
crowded  table,  and  was  dazzled,  and  delighted.  It  was  all 
so  new  to  her;  and  at  seventeen,  novelty  is  delight.  After 
supper  her  protector  gave  her  into  the  hands  of  a  cham- 
bermaid, told  her  at  what  hour  they  started  next  morn- 
ing, bade  her  good-night,  and  dismissed  her. 

Were  Richard  Gilbert's  dreams  that  night  haunted 
by  the  vision  of  a  dark,  soft  face,  two  dark  tender 
eyes,  and  the  smile  of  an  angel  ?  Richard  Gilbert 
only  knows.  But  this  is  certain:  when  Mademoiselle 
Bourdon  descended  the  stairs  next  morning  he  was 
standing  at  the  dining-room  door  awaiting  her,  and  his 
calm  eyes  lit  up,  as  few  had  ever  seen  them  light  in  his  life. 
He  led  her  into  breakfast,  and  watched  her  hearty» 
school-gi"-!  morning  appetite  with  pleasure.  Then,  there 
being  half-an-hour  to  spare  before  the  train  started,  he 
proposed  a  little  stroll  in  the  crisp,  cool  sunshine  that  had 
followed  yesterday's  storm.  It  was  very  fair,  there  in 
that  lovely  valley  in  Vermont,  with  the  tall  mountains 
piercing  the  heavens,  and  the  silvery  lakes  flashing  like 
mirrors  below. 


I6 


A'OM/A'E'S  REVEXGE. 


U  was  past  noon  when  they  reached  Portland.  The 
usi.al  rush  followed,  but  Norine,  safe  under  the  protecting 
wing  of  Mr.  Gilbert,  made  iier  way  unscathed.  She  looked 
e.ngeriy  amon;;  the  crowd  in  the  long  depot,  and  cried  out 
at  hist  at  sight  of  a  familiar  face. 

"  There,  monsieur— there  I  Uncle  Reuben  is  standing 
yonder  with  the  blue  coat  and  fur  cap.  He  is  looking 
for  me.     Oh  1  take  it  2  to  him  at  once,  please. " 

Mr.  Gilbert  led  Miss  Bourdon  up  to  where  a  blulf-Iook- 
iug,  middle-aged  countryman  stood — "  Down  East  "  from 
top  to  toe. 

"  Uncle,"  cried  Norine,  holding  out  both  hands,  eagerly, 
"  I  have  come." 

And  then,  heedless  of  the  crowd,  of  Mr.  Gilbert,  made- 
moiselle flung  both  arms  around  Uncle  Reuben's  neck  with 
very  French  effusion,  and  kissed  him,  smick — smack,  on 
both  cheeks. 

"  Hey  !  bless  my  soul !  it  i:.  you,  is  it.'"  Uncle  Reuben 
exclaimed,  extricating  himself.  "  It  is,  I  swow,  and  growed 
out  of  all  knowin'.  You're  welcome,  my  dear,  and  I'm 
right  glad  to  have  you  with  us,  for  your  poor  mother's 
sake.  You  ain't  a  look  of  her,  though — no,  not  one — 
Gustave  Bourdon  all  over.  And  how  did  you  manage  on 
your  journey  ?  I  tell  you,  we  was  all  considerable  uneasy 
about  you. " 

He  looked  at  her  tail  companion  as  he  ceased,  half  sus- 
piciously, half  inquiringly,  and  Miss  Bourdon  hastened 
to  introduce  them. 

"  This  gentleman  is  Mr.  Gilbert,  uncle.  He  has  been 
very  kind  to  me  all  the  way.  I  don't  know  what  I  should 
have  done  but  for  him.  He  has  taken  care  of  me  ever 
since  we  left  Montreal.  " 


TIVO  DLACK  EVliS  AND  THEIH  WORK. 


"'I'haiiky,  sir — much  obligetl  to  you  for  looking  after 
this  little  gill.  Come  along  and  speiul  the  day  with  us  at 
my  place,  Kent  I'arm.  " 

"Thanks,  vciy  much,"  the  lawyer  answered  ;  "  I  regret 
more  than  I  can  say  that  circumstances  render  that 
pleasure  impossible.  I  must  be  in  New  York  to-morrow, 
but  the  very  next  time  I  am  in  Portland  I  shall  certainly 
avail  myself  of  your  kind  invitation.  Miss  Bourdon,  until 
that  time  comes,  good-by." 

He  shook  hands  with  her,  and  saw  her  led  away  by  her 
uncle,  with  a  feeling  of  strange,  yearning  regret.  A  two- 
seated  country  sleigh  stood  near.  Uncle  Reuben  helped 
her  in,  took  his  seat  beside  her,  tucked  her  up,  said 
"Ga'lang,  "  and  they  were  off.  Once  she  looked  back,  to 
smile,  to  wave  her  hand  to  him  in  adieu.  One  more 
glimpse  of  that  brunette  face,  of  that  rare  smile,  of  those 
black  Canadian  eyes,  and  the  clumsy  sleigh  turned  an 
acute  angle,  and  she  was  gone. 

Gone.  A  blank  seemed  to  fall,  the  whole  place  turned 
desolate  and  empty.  With  a  wistful  look  in  his  face  he 
turned  slowly  away. 

"  Poor  little  girl  1 "  the  lawyer  thought.  "  I  hope  she  will 
be  happy.     She  is  so  pretty — so  pretty  1 " 


I' 


\l 


W 


4' 


^^m 


CHAPTER    II. 


A    WISE     MAN   S     FOLLY. 


R.  Richard  Gilukkt  went  to  New  York,  .md 
the  pirl  with  the  black  Ciinadian  eyes  and  float- 
ing hair  went  with  him — in  spirit,  that  is  to  say. 
That  dark,  piquant  face  ;  that  uplifted,  gentle 
glance ;  that  dimpling  smile  haunted  him  all  through  the 
upward  journey ;  haunted  and  lit  up  his  dingy  office,  and 
came  between  him  and  Blackstone,  and  Coke  upon 
Littleton,  and  other  legal  lights. 

Her  bright,  seventeen-year  old  face  formed  itself  into  a 
picture  upon  every  page  of  those  mouldering,  dry-as-dust 
tomes,  looked  at  him  in  the  purple  twilight,  in  the  sunny 
mornings,  in  the  dead  waste  and  middle  of  the  night. 
He  had  become  "  A  Haunted  Man,"  in  short,  Mr.  Gilbert 
was  in  love. 

And  so.  "  how  it  came  let  doctors  tell,"  all  of  a  sudden 
Mr.  Gilbert  found  that  business  required  his  presence  Down 
Ivist  early  in  July.  It  was  trifling  business,  too,  under- 
strappers in  the  office  "thought,  that  could  very  well  have 
(lone  without  his  personal  supervision  ;  but  Mr.  Gilbert 
reasoned  otherwise  ;  and,  with  a  very  unwonted  glow  about 
the  region  of  the  heart,  packed  his  portmanteau,  and 
started  for  Portland,  Me. 

The  hot  July  sun  was  blazing  in  the  afternoon  sky  and 
the  streets  of  Portland  were  blistering  in  the  heat,  as  the 
New  York    lawyer  walked  from   the   cars   to   his   hotel. 


That  important  business  which  had  brought  him  so  many 
miles  was  transacted  in  a  couple  of  hours,  and  then  he  re- 
turned to  his  hotel  to  dress  and  dine.  Dress! — when  had 
Richard  Gilbert  in  his  plain  business  pepper-and-salt  suit 
and  round-topped  straw  hat,  ever  taken  so  much  pains 
with  his  toilet  before,  ever  sported  such  faultless  broad- 
cloth in  July,  ever  wore  a  diamond  pin  in  his  snowy  linen, 
ever  stood  so  long  before  the  glass,  ever  felt  so  little 
satisfied  with  the  result  ?  When  had  the  crow's  feet  around 
mouth  and  eyes  ever  shown  so  plainly,  when  had  his  tall, 
bald  forehead  ever  appeared  so  patriarchal,  when  had  he 
ever  looked  so  dreadfully  middle-aged,  and  plodding  and 
priggish  in  his  own  legal  eyes  ?  Ah,  when  indeed  ? 

He  hired  a  light  wagon  and  a  bony  horse  at  the  nearest 
livery  stable,  and  inquired  the  way  to  Kent  Farm.  Kent 
Farm  was  three  miles  distant,  he  found,  and  the  white, 
dusty  road  lay  like  a  strip  of  silver  between  the  golden, 
green  fields.  The  haymakers  were  at  work,  the  summer  air 
was  sweet  with  perfume,  the  fields  of  buckwheat  waved,  the 
birds  sang  in  the  branches  of  the  elms,  the  grasshoppers 
chirped  until  the  drowsy  air  was  alive,  and  far  beyond  all, 
more  beautiful  than  all,  the  silver  sea  lay  asleep  under  the 
sparkling  sun.  Pretty  houses,  all  white  and  green,  were 
everywhere  ;  and  more  than  one  Maud  Miiller  leaned  on 
her  rake,  and  looked  up  under  her  broad-brimmed  hat  as 
this  thoughtful  Judge  rode  by.  He  rode  very  slowly,  so 
slowly  that  it  was  nearly  an  hour  before  he  reached  his 
destination  and  drew  up  at  the  gate  of  Kent  Farm. 

Had  he  been  wise  to  come  ?  What  was  this  young  girl, 
this  child  of  seventeen,  to  him  ?  What  could  she  ever  be  ? 
Youth  turns  to  youth,  as  flowers  to  the  sun.  What  if  he 
found  her  the  plighted  wife  of  some  stalwart  young  farmen 


«1.| 


20 


NOXINE'S  REVENGE. 


some  elegant  dry-goods  clerk  of  the  town  ?  What  ?  His  heart 
contracted  with  a  sharp,  sudden  spasm,  and  told  him  what  ? 

Kent  Farm  at  last.  Half  a  mile  from  any  other  house, 
on  the  summit  of  a  green,  sloping  eminence,  an  old  red, 
weather-beaten  farm-house  its  once  glaring  color  toned 
and  mellowed  down  by  the  sober  hand  of  Time.  A  charm- 
ing old  place,  its  garden  sloping  down  to  the  roadside, 
its  lilac  trees  in  full  bloom,  A  wide-spreading  old-fash- 
ioned garden,  with  rose  bushes,  and  gooseberry  bushes, 
-currant  bushes,  sunflowers,  and  hollyhocks,  and  big, 
gnarled  old  apple  trees,  mixed  up  in  picturesque  confusion. 

Seated  in  a  chair  of  twisted  branches,  under  one 
of  these  crooked,  blossoming  apple  trees,  the  sunlight  tan- 
gled in  her  shining  hair,  and  the  mignonne  face,  sat  Norine 
Kent  Bourdon,  reading  a  novel. 

He  opfened  the  gate.  Her  book  was  interesting— she 
did  not  hear.  He  walked  up  the  gravelled  path,  and  drew 
near.  Then  she  looked  up,  then  half  rose,  in  doubt  for 
a  moment  and  then  —  to  the  day  of  his  death,  until  all 
things  earthly,  will  Richard  Gilbert  remember  the  flush  of 
joj^  the  flash  of  recognition,  the  glad  cry  of  welcome,  with 
which  she  flung  aside  her  book  and  sprang  towards  him, 
both  hands  outstretached .' 

"  Monsieur  1  monsieur  I  "  the  sweet  voice  cried.  "  Ah, 
monsieur  !  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you.  " 

She  gave  him  her  hands.  The  lovely,  laughing  face 
the  eyes  of  fathomless  light,  looked  up  into  his.  Yes, 
she  was  glad  to  see  him,  glad  with  the  impulsive 
gladness  of  a  little  younger  sister  to  see  an  indulgent 
brother,  old  and  grave,  yet  beloved.  But  Mr,  Gilbert,  hold- 
ing those  hands,  looking  into  that  eager,  sparking  face, 
drew  no  such  nice  distinctions. 


A  WISE  MAN'S  FOLLY. 


2\ 


"  Thank  you,  mademoiselle.  You  have  not  quite  for- 
gotten me,  then,  after  all  ?  " 

"  Forgotten  you,  monsieur  ?  Oh,  my  memory  is  better  than 
that.  You  have  come  to  pay  us  that  promised  visit,  have 
you  not  ?  Uncle  Reuben  has  been  looking  for  you  ever  since 
the  first  of  June,  and  Aunt  Hester  is  never  so  happy  as 
when  she  has  company.     You  have  come  to  stay,  I  know." 

"Well,  I'm  not  sure  about  that,  Miss  Bourdon.  I 
may  remain  a  week  or  two,  certainly.  New  York  is  not 
habitable  after  the  first  week  of  July,  but  I  am  stopping  at 
the  Preble  House.  !  am  too  much  of  a  stranger  to  tres- 
pass on  your  good  uncle's  hospitality." 

"  You  have  been  kind  to  me,  monsieur,  and  you  are  a 
stranger  no  more.  Besides,  it  is  dull  here— pleasant  but 
dull,  and  it  will  be  a  second  kindness  io  enliven  us  with  a 
little  New  York  society. " 

She  laughed  and  drew  away  her  hands.  The  golden 
light  of  the  July  afternoon  gilded  the  girlish  face,  upon 
which  the  New  York  gentleman  gazed  with  an  admiration 
he  did  not  try  to  hide. 

"Dull,"  he  repeated  ;  "you  don't  find  it  dull,  I  should 
think.     Your  face  tells  a  very  different  story," 

Mademoiselle  shook  back  her  rippling  satin  hair,  and 
made  a  little  French  moue  t/iutine. 

"  Ah,  but  it  is.  Only  the  fields  and  the  flowers,  the 
trees  and  the  birds,  the  eating  and  sleeping,  and  read- 
ing. Now,  flowers  and  fields  and  birds  are  very  nice 
and  pleasant  things,  but  I  like  people,  new  faces,  new 
friends,  pleasure,  excitement,  change.  I  ride  the  horse,  I 
milk  the  cows,  I  pick  the  strawberries,  I  darn  the  stoc' jngs, 
I  play  the  piano,  I  make  the  beds,  I  read  the  novels.  But 
I  see  nobody — nobody — nobody,  and  it  is  dull." 


22 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


"  Then  you  prefer  the  old  life  and  Montreal  ? " 

"  Montreal ! "  Miss  Bourdon's  black  eyes  flashed  out,  as 
your  black  eyes  can.  "Monsieur,"  solemnly,  "I  adore 
Montreil.  It  was  always  new  and  always  nice  there; 
bright  and  gay  and  French.  French  !  it  is  all  Yankee 
herf,,  not  but  that  I  like  Yankees  too.  Aunt  Hester 
thinks,"  a  merry  laugh,  "there  never  was  anybody 
born  like  me,  and  Uncle  Reuben  thinks  I  would  be  an 
angel  if  I  didn't  read  so  many  novels  and  eat  so  many 
"custard  pies.  And,  monsieur,"  with  the  saucy  uplifted 
coquettish  glance  he  remembered  so  well,  "iiyou  find  out 
I'm  not  an  angel  don't  tell  him,  please.  I  wouldn't  have 
him  undeceived  for  the  world." 

"  I  don't  think  I  shall  find  it  out,  mademoiselle.  I  quite 
agree  with  your  uncle.     Here  he  comes  now." 

Reuben  Kent  came  out  of  the  open  front  door,  smoking 
a  pipe.  He  paused  at  sight  of  his  niece  in  friendly  collo- 
quy with  a  strange  gentleman.  The  next  moment  he  recog- 
nized him,  and  came  forward  at  once  in  hearty  welcome. 

"  Wal,  squire,"  Mr.  Kent  said,  "  you  /:ev  come,  when  I 
had  e'enamost  gi'n  you  up.  How  dye  deow  ?  'Tarnal  hot, 
ain't  it?  Must  be  a  powerful  sight  hotter,  though,  up  to 
York.  How  air  you.  You're  lookin'  pretty  considerably 
spry.  Norry's  glad  to  see  you,  /know.  That  gal's  bin  a 
talkin'  o'  ye  continual.  Come  in,  squire — come  in.  My 
sister  Hester  will  be  right  glad  to  see  ye." 

What  a  cordial  welcome  It  was ;  what  a  charming  agri- 
cultural person  Mr.  Reuben  Kent,  one  of  nature's  Down 
East  noblemen,  indeed.  In  a  glow  of  pleasure,  feeling 
ten  years  younger  and  ten  times  better  looking  than 
when  he  had  started,  the  New  York  lawyer  walked  up  to 
the  house,  into  the  wide,  cool  hall,  into  the  "  keepin'  room," 


A  WISE  MAN'S  FOLLY. 


23 


and  took  a  seat.  A  pleasant  room  ;  but  was  not  everything 
about  Kent  Farm  pleasant,  with  two  large  western  win- 
dows, through  which  the  rose  and  golden  light  of  the  low 
dropping  sun  streamed  over  the  store  carpet,  the  cane-seat- 
tu  chairs,  the  flowers  in  the  cracked  tumblers,  and  white, 
delf  pitchers.  Traces  of  Norine  were  everywhere ;  the 
piano  in  a  corner,  the  centre-table  littered  with  books, 
papers,  magazines  and  scraps  of  needle-work,  the  two 
canaries  singing  in  the  sunny  windows,  all  spoke 
of  taste,  and  girlhood.  There  were  white  muslin  cur- 
tains, crocheted  tidies  on  every  chair  in  the  room,  a 
lounge,  covered  with  cretonne  in  a  high  state  of  glaze  and 
gaudy  coloring,  and  the  scent  of  the  hay  fields  and  the 
lilacs  over  all.  No  fifth-avenue  drawing-room,  no  satin-hung 
silver-gilt  reception-room,  had  ever  looked  one  half  so  ex- 
quisite in  this  metropolitan  gentleman's  professional  eyes. 
For  there,  amid  the  singing  birds  and  the  scented  roses, 
stood  a  tall,  slim  girl,  in  a  pink  muslin  dress — and  where 
were  the  ormolu  or  brocatelle  could  embellish  any  room  as 
she  did  ? 

Uncle  Reuben  went  in  search  of  Aunt  Hester,  and  re- 
turned with  that  lady  presently ;  and  Mr.  Gilbert  saw  a 
bony  little  woman  with  bright  eyes  and  a  saffron  complex- 
ion. Miss  Kent  welcomed  him  as  an  old  friend,  and 
pressed  him  to  "  stay  to  tea." 

"  It's  jest  ready,"  she  remarked, — a  maiden  lady  wns 
Aunt  Hester, — "we've  ben  waitin' for  brother  Joe,  and  he's 
jest  come.  There  ain't  nothing  more  refreshing,  I  think 
myself,  than  a  nice  cup  o'  hot  tea  on  a  warm  day." 

Uncle  Reuben  seconded  the  motion  at  once. 

"We  can't  offer  you  anything  very  grand — silver  spoons 
and  sech — as  you  get  at  them  air  hotels,  but  sech  as  it  is, 


1^ 
I? 


24 


NOR/NE'S  REVENGE. 


and  Hester's  a  master  hand  at  crawlers  and  hot  biscuit, 
you're  most  niightly  welcome.  Norry,  you  fetch  him  along, 
while  I  go  and  wash  up." 

Miss  Bourdon  obeyed.  Mr.  Gilbert  did  not  require  ail 
that  pressing,  if  they  had  but  known  it.  There  was  no 
need  to  apologize  for  that  "  high  tea."  No  silver  teaspoons, 
it  is  true,  but  the  plated-ware  glistened  as  the  real  Simon 
Pure  never  could  have  done ;  and  no  hotel  in  Maine,  or 
out  of  it,  could  have  shown  a  snowier  table-cloth,  hotter, 
"Whiter,  more  dyspeptic  biscuits,  blacker  tea,  redder  straw- 
berries, richer  cream,  yellower  ginger-bread,  or  pinker 
cold-sliced  ham.  Mr.  Gilbert  ate  ham  and  jelly,  straw- 
berries and  tea,  hot  biscuit  a-^-!  cold  ginger-bread— in  a 
way  that  fairly  warmed  Aunt  Hester's  heart. 

"  And  we  calk'late  on  keeping  you  while  you're  down 
here,  Mr.  Gilbert,"  Uncle  Reuben's  hearty  voice  said. 
"  It's  a  pleasant  place,  though  I  say  it  as  hadn't  ought  to 
—a  heap  pleasanter  than  the  city.  Our  house  ain't  none 
too  fine,  and  our  ways  may  be  homespun  and  old-fashioned, 
but  I  reckon  Norry  and  Hester  kin  make  you  pretty  tol'bel 
comfortable  ef  you  stay." 
"Comfortable!" 

He  looked  across  at  that  face  opposite;  comfortable 
in  the  same  house  with  her  1  But  still  he  murmured  some 
faint  objection. 

"  Don't  mention  trouble,  sir,"  said  Uncle  Joe,  who  was 
the  counterpart  of  Uncle  Reuben  ;  "  you've  ben  kind  to 
our  little  Norry,  and  that's  enough  for  us.  Norry,  hain't 
you  got  nothin'  to  say  ? " 

"I  say  stay!"  and  the  bewildering  black  eyes  flash- 
ed their  laughing  light  .across  at  the  victimized  law- 
yer.   "  Stay,  and  I'll  teach  you  to  milk  and  make  butter, 


the 


A   WISE  MAN'S  FOLLY. 


25 


and  feed  poultry,  and  pick  strawberries,  and  improve  your 
mind  in  a  thousand  rural  ways.  You  shall  swing  me  when 
Uncle  Joe  is  too  busy,  and  help  me  make  short-cake,  and 
escort  me  to  'quiltin'  bees,'  and  learn  to  rake  hay.  And 
I — I'll  sing  for  you  wet  days,  and  drive  you  all  over  the 
neighborhood,  and  let  you  *ell  me  all  about  New  York  and 
the  fashions,  and  the  stores,  and  the  theatres,  and  the 
belles  of  Broadway.     Of  course  you  stay,  " 

Of  course  he  stayed.  It  is  so  easy  to  let  rosy  lips  per- 
suade us  into  doing  what  we  are  dying  to  do.  He  stay- 
ed, and  his  fate  was  fixed — for  good  or  for  evil — fixed. 
That  very  night  his  portmanteau  came  from  Portland,  and 
the  "  spare  room  "  was  his. 

Supper  over,  Uncles  Reuben  and  Joe  lit  their  pipes,  and 
went  away  to  their  fields  and  their  cattle — Aunt  Hester 
"  cleared  up, "  and  Miss  Bourdon  took  possession  of  Mr. 
Gilbert.  She  wasn't  the  least  in  awe  of  him,  she  was 
only  a  bright,  frank,  fearless,  grown-up  child.  He  was 
grave,  staid,  old — is  not  thirty-five  a  fossil  age  in  the  eyes  of 
seventeen  ? — but  venerable  though  he  was,  she  was  not 
the  least  afraid  of  him. 

She  led  her  captive — oh,  too  willing,  forth  in  triumph 
to  see  her  treasures — sleek,  well-fed  cows,  skittish  ponies, 
big  horses,  hissing  geese,  gobling  turkeys,  hens  and 
chicks  innumerable.  He  took  a  pleased  interest  in  them 
all — calves  and  colts,  chickens  and  ducklings,  ganders 
and  gobblers,  listened  to  the  history  of  each,  as  though 
he  had  never  listened  to  such  absorbing  biographies  in  all 
his  life  before. 

How  rosy  were  the  lips  that  spoke,  how  eager  llie  sun- 
ny face  uplifted  to  his,  and  when  was  there  a  time  that 
Wisdom  did  not  fall  down  and  worship  Beauty  ?    He  liked 


26 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


to  think  of  her  pure  and  sweet,  absorbed  in  these  inno- 
cent things,  to  find  neither  coquetry  nor  sentimentalism 
in  this  healthy  young  mind,  to  know  her  ignorant  as  the 
goslings  themselves  of  all  the  badness  and  hardness  andi 
cruelty  of  the  big,  cruel  world. 

They  went  into  the  garden,  and  lingered  under  the 
lilacs,  until  the  last  pink  flush  of  the  July  day  died,  and 
the  stars  came  out,  and  the  moon  sailed  up  serene.  They 
-  found  plenty  to  say  ;  and,  as  a  rule,  Richard  Gilbert  rare- 
ly found  much  to  say  to  girls.  But  Miss  Bourdon  could 
talk,  and  the  lawyer  listened  to  the  silvery,  silly  prattle 
with  a  grave  smile  on  his  face. 

It  was  easy  to  answer  all  her  eager  questions,  to  tell 
her  of  life  in  New  York,  of  the  opera  and  the  theatres,  and 
the  men  and  women  who  wrote  the  books  and  the  poems 
she  loved.  And  as  she  drank  it  in,  her  face  glowed  and 
her  great  eyes  shone. 

"  Oh,  how  beautiful  it  all  must  be !"  she  cried,  to  hear 
such  music,  to  see  such  plays,  to  know  such  people  1  If 
one's  life  could  only  be  like  the  lives  of  the  heromes  of 
books— romantic,  and  beautiful,  and  full  of  change.  If 
one  could  only  be  rich  and  a  lady,  Mr.  Gilbert  1 " 

She  clasped  her  hands  with  the  hopelessness  of  that 
thought.     He  smiled  as  he  listened.  ^^ 

«  A  lady.  Miss  Bourdon  ?  Are  you  not  that  now  ? "  Miss 
Bourdon  shook  her  head  mournfully. 

"Of  course  not,  only  a  little  stupid  country  girl,  a  far- 
mer's niece.  Oh  !  to  be  a  lady— beautiful  and  haughty  and 
admired,  to  go  to  balls  in  diamonds  and  laces,  to  go  to 
the  opera  like  a  queen,  to  lead  the  fashion,  and  to  be  wor- 
shipped by  every  one  one  met  1  But  what  is  the  use  of 
wishing,  it  never,  never,  never,  can  be." 


■"HiJt,*,! 


A  WISE  MAN'S  POLL  Y. 


V 


"  Can  it  not  "t  I  don't  quite  see  that,  although  the 
ladies  you  are  thinking  of  exist  in  novels  only,  never  in 
this  prosy,  work-a-day  world.  Wealth  is  not  happiness — 
a  worn-out  aphorism,  but  true  now  as  the  first  day  it  was 
uttered.  Great  wealth,  perhaps,  may  never  come  to  you 
but  what  may  seem  wealth  in  your  eyes  may  be  nearer 
than  you  think — who  knows  ? " 

He  looked  at  her,  a  sudden  flush  rising  over  his  face, 
but  Norine  shook  her  black  ringlets  soberly. 

"  No,  I  will  never  be  rich.  Uncle  Reuben  won't  hear 
of  my  going  out  as  governess,  so  there  is  nothing  left  but 
to  go  on  with  the  chicken-feeding  and  butter-making  and 
novel-reading  forever.  Perhaps  it  is  ungrateful,  though, 
to  desire  any  change,  for  I  am  happy  too." 

He  drew  a  little  nearer  her ;  a  light  in  his  grave  eyes,  a 
glc^w  on  his  sober  face,  warm  words  on  his  lips.  What 
was  Richard  Gilbert  about  to  say?  The  young,  sweet, 
wistful  face  was  fair  enough  in  that  tender  light,  to  turn 
the  head  of  even  a  thirty-five  year-old-lawyer.  But  those 
impulsive  words  were  not  spoken,  for  "  Norry,  Norry  1 " 
piped  Aunt  Hester's  shrill  treble.  "  Where's  that  child 
gone  ?  Doesn't  she  know  she'll  get  her  death  out  there  in 
the  evening  air  " 

Norine  laughed. 

"From  romance  to  reality  I  Aunt  Hester  doesn't 
believe  in  moonlight  and  star-gazing  and  foolish  longings 
for  the  impossible.  Perhaps  she  is  right ;  but  I  wonder  if 
she  didn't  stop  to  look  at  the  moon  sometimes,  too,  when 
she  was  seventeen  ? " 

It  was  a  very  fair  opening,  given  in  all  innocence.  But 
Mr.  Gilbert  did  not  avail  himself  of  it.  He  was  not  a 
"  lady's  man  "  in  any  sense  of  the  word.     Up  to  the  pres- 


il  ill 


Mi 


«MP 


28 


NOR/NE'S  REVENGE. 


gi  ! 


ii:; 


ent  he  had  never  given  the  fairest,  the  cleverest  among 
them  a  second  glance,  a  second  thought.  The  language 
of  compliment  and  flirtation  was  as  Chaldaic  and  Sanscrit 
to  him,  and  he  walked  by  her  side  up  to  the  house  and 
into  the  keeping-room  in  ignoble  silence. 

The  little  old  maid  and  the  big  old  bachelors  were  as- 
sembled here,  the  lamp  was  lit,  the  curtains  down  and 
the  silvery  shimmer  of  that  lovely  moon-rise  jealously 
shut  out.  Norine  went  to  the  piano,  and  entertained  her 
~^audience  with  music.  She  played  very  well,  indeed.  She 
had  had  plenty  of  piano-forte-drudgery  at  the  Convent 
school  of  the  Grey  Nuns  in  her  beloved  Montreal.  She 
sung  for  them  in  the  voice  that  suited  her  mignonne  face, 
a  full,  rich  contralto. 

She  sang  gayly,  with  eyes  that  sparkled,  the  national 
song  of  Lower  Canada :  "  Vive  la  Canadiennc, "  and  the 
New  York  lawyer  went  up  to  bed  that  first  night  with  its 
ringing  refrain  in  his  ears : 

"  Vive  la  Canadienne  ct  ses  beaux  yeux, 
£t  sts  beaux  yeux  tous  doux, 
Et  ses  beaux  yeux." 

*'  Ah  1"  Richard  Gilbert  thought,  "  well  may  the  habithns 
sing  and  extol  the  beaux  yeux  of  their  fair  countrywomen, 
if  those  bright  eyes  are  one-half  as  lovely  as  Norine  Bour- 
don's." ^ 

He  stayed  his  fortnight  out  at  the  old  red  farmhouse ; 
and  he  who  ran  might  read  the  foolish  record.  He,  a  sober, 
practical  man  of  thirty-five,  who  up  to  the  present  had 
escaped  unscarred,  had  fallen  a  victim  at  last  to  a  juvenile 
disease  in  its  most  malignant  form.  And  juvenile  disor- 
ders are  very  apt  to  be  fatal  when  caught  in  mature  years. 
He  was  in  love  with  a  tall  child  of  seventeen,  a  foolish 


A  WISE  AfAN'S  FOLLY. 


29 


little  French  girl,  who  looked  upon  him  with  precisely  the 
same  affection  she  felt  for  Uncle  Reuben. 

"  What  a  fool  I  am,"  the  lawyer  thought,  moodily,  "  to 
dream  a  child  like  that  can  ever  be  my  wife  ?  A  sensible, 
practical  young  woman  of  seven-and-twenty  is  nearer  your 
mark,  Richard  Gilbert.  What  do  I  know  of  this  girl, 
except  that  she  has  silken  ringlets  and  shining  black 
eyes,  and  all  sorts  of  charming,  childish,  bewitching  ways. 
I  will  not  make  an  idiot  of  myself  at  my  age.  I  will 
go  away  and  forget  her  and  my  folly.  I  was  a  simpleton 
ever  to  come." 

He  kept  his  word.  He  went  away  with  his  story  untold. 
He  bade  them  all  good-bye,  with  a  pang  of  regret  more 
keen  than  any  he  had  ever  felt  before  in  his  life.  Perhaps 
the  little  brown  hand  of  mademoiselle  lingered  a  thought 
longer  than  the  others  in  his  ;  perhaps  his  parting  look 
into  those  beaux  yeux  was  a  shade  more  wistful.  He  was 
going  for  good  now — to  become  a  wise  man  once  more, 
and  he  might  never  look  into  those  wonderful,  dark  eyes 
more. 

Norine  was  sorry,  very  sorry,  and  said  so  with  a  frank 
regret  her  middle-aged  lover  did  not  half  like.  He  might 
be  unskilled  in  the  mysteries  of  the  tender  passion,  but  he 
had  an  inward  conviction  that  love  would  never  speak 
such  candid  words,  neyer  look  back  at  him  with  such  crystal 
clear  eyes.  She  walked  with  him  to  the  gate ;  her  ebon 
curls  a  stream  in  the  July  breeze. 

"  Will  you  not  write  to  me  sometimes  ? "  Mr.  Gilbert 
could  not  help  asking.  "  You  don't  know  how  glad  I  shall 
be  to  hear  of — of  you  all." 

Mademoiselle  Bourdon  promised  readily. 

"  Though  I  don't  write  very  good  letters,"  she  remarked 


If 

! 


30 


NORINE'S  RE  VENGE. 


deprecatingly.  "  I  get  the  spelling  wrong,  and  the  gram- 
mar dreadfully  mixed  when  I  write  in  English,  but  I 
want  to  improve.  If  you'll  promise  to  tell  me  of  all  my 
mistakes,  I'll  write  with  pleasure." 

So  what  were  to  be  the  most  precious  love  letters  on 
earth  to  the  gentleman,  were  to  be  regarded  as  "  English 
composition,"  by  the  lady.  Truly,  the  French  proverb 
saith :  "  There  is  always  one  who  loves,  and  one  who  is 
loved." 

--  Mr,  Gilbert  returned  to  New  York,  and  found  that  pop- 
ulous city  a  blank  and  howling  wilderness.  The  exercises 
in  English  composition  began,  and  though  both  grammar 
and  spelling  might  get  themselves  into  hopeless  snarls,  to 
him  they  were  the  most  eloquent  and  precious  epistles 
ever  woman  penned.  He  had  read  the  letters  of  Lady  Mary 
Wortley  Montague,  but  what  were  those  vapid  epistles  to 
Miss  Bourdon's?  He  watched  for  the  coming  of  the 
Eastern  mail ;  he  tore  open  the  little  white  envelope ; 
he  read  and  re-read,  and  smiled  over  the  contents. 

And  time  went  on.  August,  September,  October 
passed.  The  letters  from  Miss  Norine  Bourdon  came 
like  clock  work,  and  were  the  bright  spots  in  Richard 
Gilbert's  hard-working,  drab-colored  life.  He  wrote  her 
back;  he  sent  her  books  and  music,  and  pictures  and 
albums,  and  pretty  things  without  end,  and  was  happy. 
And  then  the  Ides  of  dark  November  came,  and  all  this 
pastoral  bliss  was  ended  and  over. 

The  letters  with  the  Down-east  post  mark  ceased  ab- 
ruptly, and  without  any  reason  ;  his  last  two  remained  un- 
answered. He  wrote  a  third,  and  fell  into  a  fever  while 
he  waited.  Was  she  sick,  was  she  dead,  was  she — . 
No,  not  faithless,  surely,  he  turned   cold  at  the  bare 


A   WISE  MAN'S  FOLLY. 


31 


thought.     But  what  was  it  ?    The  last  week  of  November 
brought  him  his  answer.     Very  short,  very  unsatisfactory. 

"Kent  Farm,  Nov.  a8,  i860. 
"Dbar  Mr.  Gilbbrt— You  must  pordon  me  for  not  replying  to  your  last 
letters.  I  have  been  so  busy.  A  gentleman  met  with  an  acridcnt  nearly  three 
weeks  ago,  close  by  our  house,  broke  his  left  arm,  and  sprained  his  right  ankle. 
I  liave  had  to  take  care  of  him.  Aunt  Hetty  has  so  much  to  do  all  the  time 
that  she  could  not  We  are  all  very  welt,  and  send  you  our  best  wishes.  I  am 
Very  much  obliged  for  the  pretty  work-box,  and  the  magazines,  etc  And  I  am, 
dear  Mr.  Gilbert,  with  the  most  affectionate  sentiments, 

"  NORINR  K.  DOURDON. 

"  P.  S.— The  gentlenun  is  greatly  better.    He  is  with  us  still.    He  Is  very 
nice.    Ife  is  from  your  city.  N." 

In  the  solitude  of  his  legal  sanctum,  Richard  Gilbert, 
with  frowning  brow  and  gloomy  eyes,  read  this  blighting 
epistle.    His  worst  fears  were  realized,  more  than  realized. 

There  was  a  gentleman  in  the  case.  A  gentleman  who 
absorbed  so  much  of  Miss  Norine  Bourdon's  time  that  she 
could  not  answer  his  letters.  And  he  was  "  greatly  better  " 
and  he  was  from  your  city.  Confound  the  puppy  I  He 
was  young  and  good-looking,  no  doubt ;  and  he  must  meet 
with  his  accident,  at  her  very  door  j  precisely  as  though  he 
were  enacting  a  chapter  out  of  a  novel.  Of  course,  too,  it 
was  his  arm  and  his  ankle  that  were  smashed,  not  his 
villainous  face.  And  Norine  sat  by  his  bedside,  and 
bathed  his  forehead,  and  held  cooling  draughts  to  his 
parched  lips,  and  listened  to  his  romantic,  imbecile  de- 
lirium, etc.,  etc.,  etc.  She  sat  up  with  him  nights ;  she 
read  to  him  ;  she  talked  to  him :  she  sang  for  him.  He 
could  see  it  all. 

Mr.  Gilbert  was  a  Christian  gentleman,  so  he  did  not 
swear.  But  I  am  bound  to  say  he  felt  like  swearing.  He 
jumped  up  ;  he  crushed  that  poor  little  letter  into  a  ball ; 
he  strode  up  and  down  his  ofHce  like  a  caged  (legal)  tiger. 


I  \ 


r; 


32 


NORWE'S  REVENGE. 


The  green-eyed  monster  put  forth  its  obnoxious  claws,  and 
never  left  him  for  many  a  dreary  year.  It  was  that  atro- 
cious postscript,  so  innocently  written,  so  diabolical  to 
read.  "  He  is  greatly  better.  He  is  with  us  still.  He  is 
very  nice."  Oh,  confound  him !  what  a  pity  it  had  not  been 
his  neck. 

Suddenly  he  paused  in  his  walk,  his  brows  knit,  his 
eyes  flashing,  his  mouth  set.  Yes,  that  was  it,  he  would 
do  it,  his  resolution  was  taken.  He  would  go  straight  to 
Kent  Farm,  and  see  for  himself.  And  next  morning  at  8 
o'clock  the  express  train  for  Boston  bore  among  its  pas- 
sengers Mr.  R.  Gilbert,  of  New  York. 

The  train  whirled  him  away,  and  as  the  chill,  murky  De- 
cember landscape  flew  by,  he  awoke  all  at  once  to  a  sense 
of  what  he  was  about.  Why  was  he  going  ?  what  did  he 
mean  ?  to  ask  Norine  Bourdon  to  be  his  wife  ?  certainly 
not.  To  play  dog  in  the  manger,  and  keep  some  more 
fortunate  man  from  loving  and  marrying  her  ?  most  certain- 
ly not.  Then  why  had  he  come  ?  At  this  juncture  he  set 
his  teeth,  took  up  the  Herald  and  scowled  moodily  at  its 
printed  pages  all  day  long. 

He  slept  that  night  in  Boston,  and  next  morning  re- 
sumed his  journey.  He  reached  Portland  before  noon, 
dined  at  his  usual  hotel,  and  then,  as  the  afternoon  sun 
began  to  drop  low  in  the  wintry  sky,  set  out  on  foot  for 
Kent  Farm. 

How  familiar  it  all  was  ;  how  often,  when  the  fields  were 
green,  the  trees  waving,  and  the  birds  singing,  he  had 
walked  this  road  beside  Norine.  But  the  fields  were  white 
with  snow  to-day,  the  trees  black,  gaunt  skeletons,  and  the 
July  birds  dead  or  gone.  All  things  had  changed  in  four 
months — why  not  Norine  as  well  ? 


A  Vy/SE  AfAN'S  FOLLY. 


33 


It  was  four  by  the  lawyer's  watch  as  he  raised  the  latch 
of  the  garden  gate,  and  walked  up  the  snow-shrouded  path. 
There  stood  the  gnarled  old  apple  tree,  with  its  rustic  chair, 
but  the  tree  was  leafless,  and  the  chair  empty.  Doors  and 
windows  had  stood  wide  when  he  saw  them  last,  with  sun- 
shine and  summer  floating  in  ;  now  all  were  closed,  and 
the  Decembci  blasts  howled  around  the  gables.  Ihere 
was  no  one  to  be  seen,  but  the  red  light  of  a  fire  streamed 
brightly  out  through  the  curtains  of  the  keeping-room. 

He  went  slowly  up  the  steps,  opened  the  front  door,  and 
entered  the  hall.  The  door  of  that  best  apartment  stood 
half  open,  light  and  warmth,  voices  and  laughter  came 
through.  Mr.  Gilbert  paused  on  the  threshold  an  in- 
stant, and  looked  at  the  picture  within. 

A  very  pretty  picture. 

The  room  was  lit  by  the  leaping  fire  alone.    Seated  on  a 

low   stool,  before  the  fire  and   beside   the  sofa,  he  saw 

Norine.     She  was  reading  aloud   the  lovely  story  of  Lalia 

Rookh.     He    had  sent  her  the  green  and    gilt  volume 

himself.     She  wore  a  crimson  merino  dress,  over  which 

her  black  hair  fell,  and  in  the  fantastic  firelight  how  fair 

the  dark,  piquant  face  looked,  the  dark  eyes   were  bent 

upon  her   book,  and  the  soft  voice  was  the  only  sound 
in  the  room. 

On  the  sofa,  perilously  near,  lay  the,  "gentleman  "  of  her 
letter— the  hero  of  the  broken  arm  and  sprained  ankle, 
who  was  "  very  nice."  And  Richard  Gilbert  looking,  gave 
a  great  start. 

He  knew  him. 

His  worst  fears  were  realized.  He  saw  a  man  both  young 
and  good-looking— something  more,  indeed,  than  good- 
looking.     The  face  was  thin  and  pale,  but  when  was  that 


34 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


a  fault  in  the  eyes  of  a  girl !— a  tall  figure  in  a  dark 
suit,  brown  hair,  and  silken  blonde  mustache  artistically 
curled.  Surely  a  charming  picture  of  youth  and  beauty  on 
both  sides,  and  yet  if  Mr.  Gilbert  had  seen  a  cobra  di  capella 
coiled  up  beside  the  girl  he  loved,  he  could  hardly  have 
turned  sicker  with  jealous  fear." 

"  Laurence  Thorndyke,"  he  thought  blankly  "  of  all  the 
men  in  the  wide  world,  what  evil  fortune  has  sent  Laurence 
Thorndyke  here  1 " 


mmmm 


m^i 


CHAPTER  III. 

MR. LAURENCE  THORNDYKE. 

HE  little  dog  FroUo,  curled  up  beside  his  mis- 
tress, was  the  first  to  see  and  greet  the  new 
comer.  He  rushed  forward,  barking  a  friendly 
greeting,  and  the  young  lady  looked  up  from 
the  book  she  was  reading,  the  young  gentleman  from 
the  face  he  was  reading  at  the  same  moment,  and  be- 
held the  dark  figure  in  the  doorway. 

Norine  Bourdon  sprang  to  her  feet,  blushing  violently, 
and  came  forward  with  outstretched  hand.  It  was  the  first 
time  he  had  ever  seen  her  blush — like  that — the  first  time 
her  eyes  had  fallen,  the  first  time  her  voice  had  faltered. 
She  might  be  glad  to  see  him,  as  she  said,  but  all  the  old, 
frank,  childish  gladness  was  gone. 

"  I  have  taken  you  by  surprise,"  he  said,  gazing  into 
her  flushed  face  and  shrinking  eyes,  "  as  I  did  once  before. 
I  get  tired  of  New  York  and  business  very  suddenly 
sometimes,  and  you  know  I  have  a  standing  invitation 
here." 

"We  are  very  glad — /  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  Mr. 
Gilbert,"  Norine  answered,  but  with  an  embarrassment,  a 
restraint  altogether  new  in  his  experience  of  her.  "  We 
missed  you  very  much  after  you  went  away." 

The  young  man  on  the  sofa,  who  all  this  time  had  been 
calmly  looking  and  listening,  now  took  an  easier  position, 
and  spoke : 


i;ii 


ft.,. 


36 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


"  Six-and-twenty-years  experience  of  this  wicked  world 
hi'  taught  me  the  folly  of  being  surprised  at  anything 
under  the  sun.  But  if  I  had  not  outlived  the  power  of 
wondering,  centuries  ago,  I  should  wonder  at  seeing  Mr. 
Richard  Gilbert  out  of  the  classic  precincts  of  Wall 
street  the  first  week  of  December.  I  suppose  now  you 
wouldn't  have  looked  to  see  me  here  ? " 

He  held  out  a  shapely,  languid  hand,  with  a  diamond 
ablaze  on  it.  The  lawyer  touched  it  about  as  cordially  as 
Ihough  it  had  been  an  extended  toad. 

"I  certainly  would  not,  Mr.  Thorndyke.  I  imagined, 
and  so  did  M»-  Darcy,  when  I  saw  him  last,  that  you  were 
in  Boston,  practicing  your  profession. " 

"  Ah !  no  doubt  1  So  I  was  until  a  month  ago.  I  suppose 
it  never  entered  your — I  mean  his  venerable  noddle,  to 
conceive  the  possibility  of  my  growing  tired  practicing  my 
profession.  Such  is  the  fact,  however.  Even  the  hub  of 
the  universe  may  pall  on  the  frivolous  mind  of  youth,  and 
I've  'thrown  physic  to  the  dogs,  I'll  none  of  it,'  for  the 
present  at  least.  My  patients — ^few  and  far  between,  I'm 
happy  to  say,  will  get  on  much  more  comfortably,  and 
Stand  a  much  better  chance  of  recovery  without  me." 

"  Indeed  1  I  don't  doubt  it  at  all.    But  your  uncle  r " 

"  My  uncle  can't  hope  to  escape  the  crosses  of  life  any 
more  than  poorer  and  better  men.  All  work  and  no  play 
makes,  what's  his  name,  a  dull  boy.  There  will  be  a  row 
very  likely,  the  sooner  my  venerated  relative  is  convinced 
that  my  talents  don't  lie  in  the  bleeding  and  blistering, 
the  senna  and  salts  line,  the  better.    They  don't." 

"  Don't  they  ?  It  would  be  difficult  to  say,  from  what  I 
know  of  Mr.  Laurence  Thorndyke,  in  what  line  they  da 
lie.    May  I  ask  what  you  mean  to  do  ?" 


t 


.  ''-.-> 


-H- 


AfR.  LAURENCE  THORNDYKE. 


17 


Mi 


"  I  shall  go  in  for  sculpture,"  responded  Mr.  Laurence 
Thorndyke,  with  the  calm  consciousness  of  superior 
geniuf.  "  Other  men  have  made  fame  ana  fortune  by  art, 
and  why  not  I  ?  If  my  hypocondriacal  adopted  uncle  would 
only  shell  out,  send  me  to  Rome,  and  enable  n>e  to  study 
the  old  masters,  I  have  the  strongest  internal  conviction 
that—" 

"That  you  would  set  the  world  on  fire  with  your 
genius.  That  you  would  eclipse  the  Greek  Slave.  No 
doubt — I  have  known  others  to  think  so  before,  and  I 
know  the  sort  of  '  fame  and  fortune'  they  made.  How  do 
you  come  to  be  here  ? "    Very  curtly  and  abruptly,  this. 

"  Ah  I — thereby  hangs  a  tale,"  with  a  long  tender 
glance  at  Norine."  I  am  the  debtor  of  a  most  happy 
accident.  My  horse  threw  me,  and  Miss  Bourdon, 
happening  along  at  the  moment,  turned  Good  Samaritan 
and  took  me  in." 

"  I  don't  mean  that,"  Mr.  Gilbert  said,  stiffly ;  "  how  do 
you  come  to  be  in  Maine  at  all  ? " 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  Tom  Lydyard — the  Portland 
Lydyards,  you  know — no  I  suppose  you  don't  know,  by 
the  by.  Tom  Lydyard  was  to  be  married,  and  invited, 
me  over  on  the  auspicious  occasion.  Tom's  a  Harvard 
man  like  myself,  sworn  chums,  brothers-in-arms,  Da- 
mon and  P}rthias,  and  all  that  bosh;  and  when  he 
asked  me  down  to  his  wedding,  could  I — I  put  it  to 
yourself,  now,  Gilbert,  could  I  refuse  ?  I  cut  the  shop,  I 
turned  my  back  on  blue  pills  and  chloral,  I  came,  I  saw,  I — 
mademoiselle,  may  I  trouble  you  for  a  glass  of  lemonade  ? 
You  have  no  idea,  Mr.  Gilbert,  what  a  nuisance  I  am,  not 
being  able  to  do  anything  for  myself  yet.' 

"  Perhaps  I  have  "  was,  Mr.  Gilbert's  frigid  response. 


^fS^. 


38 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


i  ;'■■ 


1^ 


s  < 


The  sight  of  Norine  bending  over  that  recumbent  fig- 
ure gave  him  a  sensation  of  actual  physical  pain.  He 
knew  what  this  languid,  graceful,  slow-speaking  young 
Sybarite's  life  had  been,  if  she  did  not. 

Just  at  that  moment — and  it  was  a  relief.  Aunt  Hester 
entered,  followed  by  Uncles  Reuben  and  Joe.  No  restraint 
here,  no  doubt  about  his  welcome  from  them,  no  change 
in  the  place  he  held  in  their  ester  "n  and  affection.  Tea 
was  ready,  would  everybody  please  to  come. 
-  Mr.  Thorndyke's  fractured  limb  was  by  no  means  equal 
to  locomotion,  so  Uncle  Reuben  wheeled  him,  sofa  and 
all,  into  the  next  room,  and  Aunt  Hester  and  Norine  vied 
with  each  other  in  waiting  on  him.  It  comes  natural  to 
all  women  to  pet  sick  men — if  the  man  be  young  and 
handsome,  why  it  comes  all  the  more  naturally. 

Mr.  Thorndyke  wasn't  sick  by  any  means — that  was 
all  over  and  done  with.  He'took  his  tea  from  Aunt  Hes- 
ter's hand  and  drank  it,  his  toast  and  chicken  from  Norine 
and  ate  them.  He  talked  to  them  both  in  that  lazy, 
pleasant  voice  of  his,  or  lay  silent  and  stroked  his  mus- 
tache with  his  diamond-ringed  hand,  and  looked  hand- 
some, and  whether  the  talk  or  the  silence  were  most  danger- 
ous, it  would  have  puzzled  a  cleverer  man  than  Richard 
Gilbert  to  tell.  To  sit  there  listening  to  Aunt  Hester  chirp, 
ing  and  Uncle  Reuben  prosing,  and  see  the  blue  eyes  mak- 
ing  love,  in  eloquent  silence,  to  the  black  ones,  was  almost 
too  much  for  human  nature  to  endure.  She  sat  there  silent, 
shy,  all  unlike  the  bright,  chattering  Norine  of  the  summer 
gone,  but  with,  oh  1  such  an  infinitely  happy  face  I  She  sat 
beside  Laurence  Thorndyke — she  ministered  to  that  con- 
valescent appetite  of  his,  and  that  was  enough.  What 
need  of  speech  when  silence  is  so  sweet? 


9¥m 


MR.  LAURENCE  THORNDYKE. 


39 


Supper  ended,  Mr.  Thorndyke  was  wheeled  back  to 
his  post  in  the  front  room  beside  the  fire.  Norine  never 
came  near  him  all  the  rest  of  the  evening,  she  sat  at  the 
little  piano,  and  poured  out  her  whole  heart  in  song. 
Richard  Gilbert,  full  of  miserable,  knawing  jealousy, 
understood  those  songs ;  perhaps  Laurence  Thorn- 
dyke,  lying  with  half-closed  eyes,  half-smiling  lips, 
did  too.  They  were  old-fashioned  songs  that  the  lawyer 
had  sent  her,  favorites  of  his  own  :  "  Twere  vain  to  tell  thee 
all  I  feel,"  and  "  Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes."  Yes, 
the  meaning  of  those  tender  old  ballads  was  not  for  him. 
It  was  maddening  to  see  Laurence  Thorndyke  lying  there, 
with  that  conscious  smile  on  his  lips ;  he  could  endure  no 
more — he  arose  with  the  last  note,  abruptly  enough,  and 
bade  them  good-night. 

"What!  so  early,  Gilbert  ? "  Thorndyke  said,  looking  at 
his  watch.  "  What  a  dickens  of  a  hurry  you're  in.  You've 
got  no  clients  in  Portland,  have  you  ?  and  Miss  Bourdon,  is 
going  to  sing  us  half-a-dozen  more  songs  yet." 

Mr.  Gilbert  paid  no  attention  whatever  to  this  flippant 
young  man.  He  turned  his  back  upon  him  indeed,  and 
explained  elaborately  to  Uncle  Reuben  that  it  was  im- 
possible for  him  to  remain  longer  to-night,  but  that  he 
would  call  early  on  the  morrow. 

"  He  is  very  much  changed,"  remarked  Aunt  Hester, 
thoughtfully  J  "  don't  you  think  so,  Norry  ?  He's  nothing 
like  so  pleasant  and  free,  as  he  used  to  be." 

"  Particularly  grumpy,  I  should  say,"  interposed  Mr. 
Thorndyke.  "  '  Pleasant  and  free '  are  the  last  terms  I 
should  think  of  applying  to  Richard  Gilbert.  Not  half  a 
bad  fellow  either,  old  Gilbert,  but  an  awful  prig— don't 
you  think  so,  Miss.  Bourdon  ?  " 


w 


I"  Id 

I 


1 


40 


NOR  INK'S  REVENGE. 


¥ 

% 

If: 


"I  like  Mr.  Gilbert  very  much,"  Miss  Bourdon 
answered,  strumming  idly  on  the  keys;  "  and  I  think  him 
pleasant.  He  seemed  out  of  spirits  to-night,  though,  I 
fancy." 

It  was  bright,  frosty  starlight  as  the  lawyer  walked 
back  to  town.  He  walked  rapidly,  his  head  well  up,  a 
dark  frown  clouding  his  face. 

"  Any  one  but  Thorndyke— any  one  but  Thorndyke  I  " 
he  was  thinking  bitterly.  Alas  1  Mr.  Gilbert,  would  you  not 
-have  been  jealous  of  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  had  that 
dignitary  been  "  keeping  company  "  with  Miss  Bourdon  ? 
"  And  she  loves  him  already — already.  A  very  old  story  to 
Laurence  Thorndyke.  Six-and-twenty  years,  a  well-shaped 
nose,  two  blue  eyes,  a  mustache,  and  the  easy  insolence  of 
the  •  golden  youth'  of  New  York.  What  else  has  he  but 
that  ?  What  else  is  needed  to  win  any  woman's  heart  ?  And 
hers  is  his,  for  good  or  for  evil,  for  ever  and  ever.  He 
is  the  Prince  Charming  of  her  fairy  tale,  and  she  has 
caught  his  wandering,  artist  fancy,  as  scores  have  caught 
it  before.  And  when  I  tell  her  the  truth,  that  his 
plighted  wife  awaits  him,  what  then  ?  Little  Norine  !  to 
think  that  you  should  fall  into  the  power  of  Laurence 
Thorndyke." 

Yes,  she  was  in  his  power — ^for  she  loved  him.  Had  it 
all  not  been  so  delightfully  romantic,  so  like  a  chapter 
out  of  one  of  her  pet  novels,  that  first  meeting,  when 
Fate  itself  had  flung  him  wounded  and  bleeding  at  her 
feet  ?  Was  it  not  all  photographed  forever  on  her  mind,  a 
picture  whose  vividness  time  never  could  dim !  It  had 
befallen  in  this  way : 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  third  of  November  Miss  Bourdon 
had  driven  over  in  the  light  wagon  from  the  farm  to  the 


MJ-:f\M 


MR.  LAURENCE  THORNDVKE.  41 

city,  to  receive  her  usual,  eagerly-looked-for  package  from 
Mr.  Gilbert.  It  had  been  dark  and  windy  from  early 
morning.  As  the  afternoon  wore  on,  the  sky  grew  darker, 
the  wind  higher.  She  got  her  bundle  of  books,  visited 
one  or  two  stores,  one  or  two  friends,  and  night  had  fallen 
before  she  turned  old  Kitty's  head  towards  Kent  Farm. 
A  faint  and  watery  moon  made  its  way  up  through  the 
drifts  of  jagged  cloud,  and  the  gale  howled  through  the 
street  as  though  it  had  gone  mad.  It  was  a  bnely 
and  unpleasant  ride;  but  old  Kitty  could  have  made  her 
way  asleep,  and  Norine  sang  to  herself  as  she  drove 
slowly  along.  They  were  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of 
the  house,  when  Kitty  pricked  up  her  red  ears,  gave  a 
neigh  of  alarm,  and  shied  from  some  long,  dark  object 
lying  motionless  across  her  path.  Norine  bent  over  and 
looked  down.  There,  she  saw,  lying  on  his  face,  the 
prostrate  form  of  a  man. 

Was  he  drunk,  or  was  he  dead  ?  She  was  out  in  a 
twinkling,  and  bending  above  him.  There  was  blood  on 
his  clothes,  and  on  the  dusty  road.  She  turned  his  face  over 
until  the  pallid  moon  shone  upon  it.  Dead,  to  all  seeming, 
the  eyes  closed,  life  and  consciousness  gone. 

Fifteen  minutes  later,  Mr.  Laurence  Thorndyke  was 
lying  in  the  best  bedroom  of  Kent  Farm,  with  Aunt  Hester 
and  Norine  bending  over  him,  and  Uncle  Joe  scudding 
along  on  horseback  for  a  doctor.  All  their  efforts  to 
bring  him  out  of  that  fainting  fit  were  vain.  White  and 
cold  he  lay ;  and  so  Norine  Bourdon,  with  a  great  pity 
in  her  heart,  looked  first  upon  the  face  of  Laurence 
Thorndyke. 


^4)S- 


W 


I!; 
il 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  lawyer's  warning. 

R.  Gilbert  appeared  in  no  hurry  to  revisit  his 
friends  at  Kent  Farm.  It  was  late  in  the  af- 
ternoon of  the  next  day  before  he  came  slowly 

along  the  quiet  country  road.     He  had  passed 

the  morning  idly  enough,  staring  from  the  hotel  win- 
dow, down  at  the  peaceful  street  and  the  few  straggling 
passers  by.  After  his  three  o'clock  dinner  he  had  put 
on  hat  and  overcoat,  and  leisurely  taken  his  way  over  the 
familiar  ground. 

It  was  a  gray  December  afternoon,  with  a  threatening 
of  coming  storm  in  the  overcast  sky.  A  few  feathery 
flakes  whirled  already  through  the  leaden  air,  an  icy  blast 
blew  up  from  the  sea,  the  road  was  deserted,  the  dreary 
fields  snow-shrouded  and  forsaken.  And  only  yesterday 
it  seemed  he  had  walked  here  by  her  side,  the  golden  grain 
breast  high,  and  the  scarlet  poppies  aflame  in  the  gardens. 
His  youth  had  come  back  to  him  with  that  sunlit  holiday. 
If  he  had  spoken  then,  who  knew  what  her  answer  might 
have  been.  But  he  had  let  the  hour  and  the  day  go  by,  and 
now  it  was  too  late. 

The  snow ."  l.es  were  whirling  faster  and  faster  as  Mr.  Gil- 
bert opened  the  gate  and  approached  the  house.  He  could 
see  the  rose  light  of  the  fire  through  the  curtained  windows, 


», 


THE  LAWYER'S  WARNING. 


43 


and  a  slight,  graceful  figure  seated  at  one,  scwitig.  The 
brown  rattling  stems  of  hop  vines  twining  around  it,  like 
sere  serpents,  made  a  framework  for  the  girlish  head  and 
fair  young  face.  All  the  floss  silk  curls  were  bound  back 
with  scarlet  ribbon,  and  the  luminous  black  eyes  were  fixed 
on  her  work.  They  saw  the  tardy  visitor,  however,  and  with 
a  bright,  welcoming  smile  she  sprang  up,  and  ran  to  open 
the  door. 

"  How  late  you  are.  We  thought  you  were  not  coming 
at  all.  I  have  been  looking  for  you  all  day."  She  held 
out  her  hand,  far  more  like  Norine  of  old  than  last  night, 
and  led  the  way  back  into  the  parlor.  There  on  his  comfort- 
able sofa,  by  his  comfortable  fire,  reposed  of  course  the  five 
feet,  eleven  inches  of  Mr.  Laurence  Thorndyke.  Mr.  Gil- 
bert gave  that  invalid  a  nod  several  degrees  icier  than  the 
elements  out  doons. 

"Ah,  you  have  come  I  I  told  Norine  you  would."  — 
Norine  1  it  had  come  to  that  then — "  I  know  you  to  be 
one  of  those  uncompromising  sort  of  characters,  Gilbert, 
who  never  break  their  word.  Have  you  your  cigar  case 
about  you  ?  I  should  like  a  smoke." 

"  Miss  Bourdon  is  present,  Mr.  Thorndyke." 

"  So  she  is — for  which  Allah  be  praised.  But  Miss  Bour- 
don is  the  most  sensible,  as  she  is  most  charming  of  young 
ladies.  She  gave  me  carte  blanche  ages  ago  to  smoke  as 
much  as  I  please.  Didn't  you  Norry  ?  She  fills  my  pipe, 
she  even  lights  it  when  this  confounded  shoulder  twitches 
more  than  usual." 

Richard  Gilbert  set  his  teeth  v/ith  inward  fury.  To  sit 
here,  and  listen  to  Laurence  Thorndyke's  insolent  familiar 
ity,  his  lover  like — "  Norry,"  drove  him  half  wild. 

"  I  have  not  my  cigar-case,"  he  answered,  more  and  more 


r® 


ipo^ 


44 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


frigidly ;  "  and  if  I  had,  I  don't  know  that  I  should  counte- 
nance such  a  trespass  on  common  decency  as  to  let  you 
smoke  one  here.  How  long  before  your  doctor  thinks  you 
fit  to  be  removed  ?  " 

"  Oh,  not  for  weeks  yet ;  it  was  a  deuce  of  a  fracture,  I 
can  tell  you.  Why,  pray?  My  insignificant  movements,  as  a 
rule,  are  all  unworthy  Mr.  Gilbert's  attention." 

"  Your  uncle  is  my  friend,  sir,"  the  lawyer  replied, "  and 
I  prefer  not  to  see  him  hoodwinked.     I  recommend  you 
""Strongly  to  write  and  explain  your  position,  or  I  shall  take 
an  early  opportunity  of  doing  so  myself." 

"  Will  you  ?  How  very  kind  you  are.  But  isn't  it  a  pity 
to  give  yourself  so  much  unnecessary  trouble  ?  I  believe 
Mr.  Hugh  Darcy  did  invest  you  with  a  species  of  authority 
over  my  actions,  but  at  six-and-twenty,  don't  you  think  a 
fellow  ought  to  be  let  loose  from  the  leading  strings  ?  And 
what  would  you  have  ?  I  couldn't  help  accepting  Tom  Lyd- 
yard's  invitation.  I  couldn't  help  my  horse  taking  fright 
and  throwing  me.  I  couldn't  help  breaking  my  arm,  and 
spraining  my  ankle,  and  I  can't  help  being  in  the  seventh 
heaven  of  happiness  and  comfort  with  two  such  nurses  as 
Miss  Kent  and  Miss  Bourdon.  Don't  be  unreasonable, 
Gilbert.  Norine — ma  belle,  I  am  utterly  exhausted  with  all 
this  talking.  What  are  you  laughing  at  ?  Do  pray  favor 
me  with  my  meerschaum  and  a  light." 

The  pleasant  lazy  voice  stopped,  the  pleasant  smile 
turned  upon  Norine. 

Miss  Bourdon  laughing  at  this  passage  of  arms  arose 
with  alacrity  to  obey,  and  the  lawyer,  looking  unspeakably 
grim  got  up,  too. 

"  Permit  me  to  say  good-by,  Miss  Bourdon.  I  start  for 
New  York  to-night.    Can  I  see  your  uncle  a  moment  be- 


I 


THE  LA  WYEK'S  WARNING. 


45 


fore  I  go  ?  "  The  door  opened  as  he  asked  the  question 
and  Aunt  Hester  came  into  the  room. 

"  I  heard  your  voice  as  I  passed  through  the  hall,"  she 
said.     "  Surely  you  ain't  going  so  soon  ? " 

"  I  regret  I  must,  my  business  requires  my  immediate 
return.  1  have  only  time  to  say  good-by  and  speak  a 
word  to  your  brother.      Where  shall  I  find  him  ? " 

"  In  the  stable,  most  likely.     I'll  go  with  you." 

"Thanks.     Farewell,  Miss  Bourdon." 

Again  their  hands  met,  she  looked  perplexed  and  wist- 
ful, but  she  did  not  urge  him  to  stay.  With  a  second  stiff 
nod  to  Mr.  Thorndyke,  the  lawyer  strode  out  of  the  room 
after  Aunt  Hetty. 

"  A  word  to  her  brother,"  muttered  Mr.  Thorndyke  to 
himself  looking  after  them.  "  I  think  I  know  what  that 
means.  '  That  fellow,  Thorndyke,  is  a  spendthrift,  a  gam- 
bler, a  flirt,  an  engaged  man.  Don't  let  him  have  any- 
thing to  say  to  Norine.'  That  will  be  about  the  sum  and 
substance  of  it.  To  think  of  his  falling  in  love  at  his  time 
of  life,  when  he's  old  enough  and  big  enough  to  know  bet- 
ter. But  then  middle-aged  fools  are  the  worst  of  all  fools. 
And  you  come  a  day  after  the  fair,  Mr.  Richard  Gilbert. 
Your  word  of  warning  is  just  two  weeks  too  late.  I  owe 
you  two  or  three  little  grudges  for  your  espionage  of  the 
past,  and  for  two  or  three  little  games  blocked,  and  I  think 
I  see  my  way  clearly  to  wiping  them  out  at  last.  A  thou- 
sand thanks  my  charming  littl'  lurse."  Aloud  to  Norine, 
entering  with  pipe  and  pipe-light : 

"  What  should  I  ever  do  without  you  ? " 

Mr.  Gilbert,  escorted  by  Aunt  Hester,  reacheS  the  stable, 
where  Uncle  Reuben  stood  busily  curry-combing  Kitty. 

"  I  want  to  speak  half-a-dozen  words  in  private  to  you, 


^^^Wnt***  ..^ 


t1 


I' 
ii 


!^ 


46 


JVOH/NE'S  REVENGE. 


Kent,"  the  lawyer  began,  abruptly  enough,  "You  will 
tell  your  good  sister  here  at  your  convenience,  if  you  see 
fit.  You  :Tiust  excuse  my  seeming  rudeness,  Miss  Kent, 
and  say  goodby,  now." 

He  shook  hands  with  her  cordially,  and  watched  her 
out  of  sight.    Then  he  turned  to  her  brother. 
"  We  are  quite  alone  ? "  he  asked. 
"  Quite,  squire.    Take  a  seat." 

He  brought  forward  a  stool,  but  Mr  Gilbert  waved  it  away. 
"     "  No,  no,  what  I  have  to  say  will  take  but  a  minute,  and 
then  I  shall  be  going.     I  want  to  speak  to  you  of  that 
young  man  who  is  your  guest — Laurence  Thorndyke." 
"  Wal,  squire." 

"You    have    not    known    me    very   1^         Mr.   Kent, 
but  I  think,  I  hope,  you  have  known  mc  enough  to 

trust  me,  to  believe  what  I  say,  to  understand  I  have  no 
selfish  motive.  It  is  for  " — he  paused  a  moment — "  it  is 
for  your  niece's  sake  I  speak,  you  can  hardly  take  a  deep- 
er  interest  in  her  welfare  than  I  do." 

Was  there  ever  so  slight  a  tremor  in  the  grave,  steady 
voice,  or  did  Reuben  Kent  only  fancy  it  ?    He  paused  in 
Kitty's  toilet  and  looked  at  him  keenly. 
"  Wal,  squire  ? "  he  said  again. 

"  Laurence  Thorndyke  is  no  fit,  no  safe  companion  for 
your  niece.  He  is  not  a  good  man,  he  is  as  false  as  he  is 
fascinating.  She  is  only  seventeen,  she  knows  nothing  of 
the  world,  nothing  of  such  men  as  he,  and  believe  me, 
Kent,  it  won't  do." 

Reuben  Kent  looked  up,  a  sudden  flash  in  his  eye,  a 
sudden  redness  in  his  face. 
"  Go  on,"  he  said,  curtly. 
"  I  am  afraid  Miss  Bourdon  cares  more  for  him  already 


I 


THE  LAWYER'S  WARNING. 


47 


than — "  He  paused  again  and  averted  his  face.  "  You 
know  what  I  mean.  He  is  handsome,  and  she  is  only  a 
girl.  She  will  grow  to  love  him,  and  he  could  not  marry 
her  if  he  would,  he  is  already  engaged,  and  unless  I 
mistake  him  greatly,  would  not  if  he  could.  Mr.  Kent, 
this  young  man  will  go  away,  and  Norine  will  be  neither 
the  better  nor  the  happier  for  his  coming." 

His  voice  was  husky.  Something  of  the  pain  he  felt 
was  in  his  face.  The  farmer  stretched  forth  and  caught 
the  lawyer's  hand  in  a  hard  grip. 

"Thanky,  squire,"  he  said  ;  "  I  ain't  a  man  to  jaw  much, 
but  I  believe  ^(?«,  and  am  obliged  to  you  for  this.  If  that 
young  jacknapes  from  York  tries  >  come  any  of  his  city 
games  down  here,  by  the  Lord  Jchosaphat  1  I'll  lay  him 
up  with  something  worse  than  a  broken  a  .n  I  " 

"  Can  you  not  avert  the  danger  ?  "  suggested  Mr. 
Gilbert.    "  It  may  not  be  too  late.    Send  the  fellow  away." 

"  Wal,  squire,  you  see  that  mightn't  be  doing  the  square 
thing  by  him.  It  would  look  unpleasantly  like  turning 
him  out.  No,  I  can't  send  him  away  until  the  doctor  says 
he's  fit  to  go,  but,  by  ginger,  I'll  send  her  I " 

"Will  she  go?" 

Uncle  Reuben  chuckled. 

"  We  won't  ask  her.  I'll  fix  it  off.  We've  some  cousins 
thirty  miles  up  country,  and  they've  invited  her  time  and 
again,  but,  somehow,  we've  never  felt — ^Joe  and  me — as 
though  we  could  spare  her  afore.  It's  powerful  lonesome, 
I  tell  ye,  squire,  when  Norry  ain't  around.  But  now — I'll 
lake  her  to-morrow  morning." 

"  The  best  thing  you  can  do.  And  now,  before  it  gets 
any  later  and  stormier,  I  will  be  off.  Good-by,  Mr.  Kent, 
for  the  present." 


4 
11 


l?f^ 


I, 


fci 


u 


I. 


A. 


48 


NORINETS  REVENGE. 


You'll  be  along 


"  Good-by,  and  thanky,  squire,  thanky, 
again  ?oon,  hey  ? " 

"  Well,  perhaps  so,"  replied  the  lawyer,  coloring  slight- 
ly. "  Take  care  of  your  niece,  Kent,  and  good-by  to  you." 
They  parted  at  the  gate.  Reuben  Kent  watched  the 
stalwart  form  of  the  lawyer  out  of  siglit,  then  walked  slow- 
ly and  thoughtfully  back  to  the  house  and  the  sitting- 
room.  Mr.  Thorndyke,  in  a  deep,  melodious  tenor,  was 
reading  aloud  "  Lucille,"  and  Miss  Bourdon,  with  flushed 
cTieeks  and  glistening  eyes  of  light,  was  listening. 

The  reading  ceased  at  the  farmer's  entrance  j  the  spell 
was  broken,  and  Norine  looked  up. 

"  Has  Mr.  Gilbert  gone,  Uncle  Reuben  ? " 
"Yes." 

He  said  it  with  unusual  gravity,  regarding  young  Thorn- 
dyke.  The  girl  saw  the  change  in  his  usually  good 
humored,  red-and-tan  face,  and  went  over  and  threw  an 
arm  around  his  neck. 

"  What  is  it,  uncle  ?    Something  gone  wrong  ?" 
«« No— yes.     Nothing  that  can't  be  set  right,  I  hope. 
Where's  your  aunt  ?" 

"  In  the  kitchen  baking  cake.    Shall  I  rui»  and  call 

her  ? " 

"  No,  I'll  go  myself." 

He  left  the  room.    Mr.  Thorndyke  watched  him. 

"  It  is  as  I  thought,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  My  label  is  up, 
'dangerous.'  What  has  Gilbert  been  saying  ?  Has  he  given 
Uncle  Reuben  my  whole  interesting  biography?  Has 
he  told  him  I  drink,  I  gamble,  I  make  love  to  pretty  girls 
wherever  I  meet  them  ?  All  right,  my  legal  duffer  ;  you 
have  set  your  forty-years-old  heart  on  pretty,  black-eyed, 
belle  Norine,  and  so  have  I.    Now,  let's  see  who'll  win." 


•«!r 


THE  LAWYER'S  WARNING. 


49 


Mr.  Kent  found  his  sister  in  the  kitchen,  baking,  as 
Norine  had  said,  cakes  for  tea,  their  fragrant  sweetness 
perfuming  the  hot  air.  In  very  few  words  he  repeated  to 
her  the  lawyer's  warning. 

"  We  might  a  seen  it  ourselves,  Hetty,  if  we  hadn't  been 
blinder  than  bats.  I'll  take  her  up  to  Abel  Mei  zeath- 
er's  to-morrow,  and  just  leave  her  thar  till  this  ere  chap 
goes." 

"  Will  you  tell  her,  Reuben  ? "     Aunt  Hetty  asked. 

"  No  ;  I  kinder  don't  like  to,  somehow.  She'll  guess 
without  any  telling,  I  reckon.  If  I  told  her,  she  might 
tell  him,  there  ain't  never  no  countin'  on  gals,  and  then 
he'd  be  after  her  hot  foot.  Least  said's  soonest  mended. 
Jest  call  her  down  to  help  you,  Hetty,  and  keep  her  here 
as  long  as  you  can.  What  with  his  poetry  reading,  his 
singing,  his  fine  talk,  and  good-lookin'  face,  he's  enough 
to  turn  any  gal's  head." 

"  It  was  very  good  of  Mr.  Gilbert  to  tell  you,  Reuben." 

"  Very." 

They  looked  at  each  other,  and  smiled.  Poor  Richard 
Gilbert !  Your  cherished  secret  was  very  large  print  after 
all. 

"  Mr.  Gilbert's  her  best  friend,  and  sets  heaps  by  her,", 
said  Uncle  Reuben  rising.     "  Call  the  girl  at  once,  Hetty." 

He  left  the  kitchen  and  Aunt  Hester  obeyed.  Norine 
was  summoned  from  "  Lucille,"  and  Mr.  Thorndyke — to 
look  after  the  cakes,  to  make  tea,  to  roll  out  the  short-cakei 
to  butter  the  biscuits,  to  set  the  table.  For  once  Aunt 
Hester  turned  lazy  and  left  everything  to  Norine.  She  had 
not  breathing  space  until  supper  was  on  the  table. 

After  supper  it  was  as  bad.  Contrary  to  all  precedent, 
instead  of  going  to  tho  piapo,  Norine  got  a  basket  of  socks 

3 


f^ 


SO 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


to  darn.  She  looked  at  the  heap  and  the  rents  with  laugh- 
ing dismay.  , 

"All  these  for  me,  Aunty  I  I'll  never  get  through  in 
the  world,  and  I  want  to  practice  my  new  songs  with  Mr. 
Thorndyke." 

"Mr.  Thorndyke  will  excuse  you,  I  am  sure,"  Aunt 
Hetty  answered  quietly.  "  You  sing  a  great  deal  more  for 
him  than  you  darn  for  me.  You  darn  very  badly — it  is 
time  that  you  learned  something  useful.  Here  is  your 
needle  and  ball,  my  dear,  go  to  work  at  once." 

Miss  Bourdon  made  a  little  wry  face  ;  Mr.  Thorndyke's 
laughing  blue  eyes  looked  knowing.  Love  and  music 
were  to  be  exchanged  for  cooking  and  darning,  all  thanks 
to  Mr.  Gilbert. 

Aunt  Hester  placed  herself  between  her  guest  and  her 
niece,  and  kept  her  post  like  a  very  duenna  all  the  even- 
ing. No  poetry,  no  music,  no  compliments,  no  love- 
making,  only  silence  and  sock-darning.  Laurence  Thorn- 
dyke reclining  on  his  lounge,  even  his  efforts  at  con- 
versation falling  flat,  saw  and  understood  it  all  perfectly. 
By  Gilbert's  order  the  ewe  lamb  was  to  be  guarded  from 
the  wolf.     And  his  spirit  rose  with  the  resistance 

"  Guard  her  as  you  like,"  he  said  inwardly, — "  watch  her 
as  you  will,  I'll  baffle  the  whole  of  you  yet.  If  I  cared 
nothing  for  the  girl,  and  I  don't  care  much,  I  would  still 
conquer  you  here,  if  only  for  the  pleasure  of  paying  off 
Richard  Gilbert.  Meddling  old  prig!  There  was  that 
affair  of  Lucy  West,  he  had  to  bring  that  to  light,  and 
old  Darcy  was  within  an  ace  of  disinheriting  nie.  He  wants 
to  marry  this  little  black-eyed,  sentimental  French  girl  him- 
self— more  fool  he — and  it  shall  be  my  pleasant  and  profit- 
able occupation  to  nip  that  middle-aged  romance  in  the 


***--* 


THE  LA  WVEIVS  WARNING. 


51 


bud.  I  flatter  myself  I  am  rather  more  than  a  match  for 
Aunt  Hetty." 

But  Mr.  Thorndyke  was  yet  to  learn  whether  he  was  or 
no.  At  no  time,  well  or  ill,  was  this  elegant  young  doctor 
addicted  to  the  vice  of  early-rising.  It  was  mostly  noon 
when,  half-carried  in  the  strong  arms  of  Uncle  Reuben 
and  Joe,  he  reached  the  parlor. 

Norine,  however,  was  up  with  the  lark — that  is  to  say, 
there  were  no  larks  in  December,  but  with  the  striking  six 
of  the  kitchen  clock.  On  the  morning  following  the  stock- 
ing darning,' as  the  family  assembled  together  for  their 
seven  o'clock  breakfast.  Uncle  Reuben  said  : 

"  Norry,  I'm  a  going  to  give  you  a  treat  to-day — some- 
thing you've  been  wanting  this  long  time." 

Norine  opened  her  black  eyes,  and  held  the  portion  of 
buckwheat  cake  on  her  fork,  suspended  in  space. 

"  A  treat  I  Something  I've  been  wanting  this  long  time  I 
You  darling  old  dear,  what  is  it  ? " 

"  Don't  ask  me,  it's  a  secret,  it's  to  be  a  surprise. 
Have  you  finished  breakfast  ?  Wal,  run  and  put  on  the 
best  duds  you've  got,  while  I  go  round  and  gear  up  Kitty." 

"  Kitty !  Then  we're  going  somewhere.  Now  Uncle 
Reuben " 

"  It  ain't  a  mite  o'  use,  Norry,  I  ain't  agoin'  to  tell. 
Be  off  and  clap  on  your  Sunday  fixins,  while  I  get  around 
the  cutter." 

"  You're  going  to  take  me  to  the  city  and  buy  me  some- 
thing— a  silk  dress,  perhaps.  Oh,  uncle!  what  a  dear 
old  love  you  are  1     I'll  be  ready  in  ten  minutes." 

Uncle  Reuben's  heart  smote  him  a  little  as  he  received 
Norine's  rapturous  kiss,  but  there  was  no  drawing  back. 
He  left  the  house,  while  Miss  Bourdon  flew  off  singing  like 


M^. 


52 


NORINETS  REVENGE. 


a  skylark,  to  make  her  toilet.  A  new  silk— yes,  that  was 
it — a  new  wine-colored  silk  with  black  lace  trimming.  If 
Mr.  Thorndyke  admired  her  in  last  winter's  dingy  red  me- 
rino, how  would  he  be  dazzled  by  the  wine-colored  silk  ?  In 
fifteen  minutes  her  rapid  toilet  was  made,  and  looking 
charming  in  her  holiday  attire  she  came  running  back  to 
Uncle  Reuben.  The  sleigh  was  drawn  up  before  the  door  ; 
she  sprang  into  her  seat  beside  him.  Aunt  Hetty,  in  the 
doorway,  was  smiling  good-by,  the  bells  jingled,  the  whip 
cracked,  Kitty  tossed  her  head  and  darted  away  into  the 
frosty  morning  sunshine. 

"  Not  going  to  the  city,  uncle  1 "  cried  Norine  "  now, 
where  on  earth  can  you  be  taking  me  ?  " 

"  To  Merryweather's  my  dear,"  calmly  responded 
Uncle  Reuben,  "  where  you  have  been  teasing  me  to  take 
you  these  three  months.  There!  ain't  that  a  pleasant 
surprise  ? " 

There  was  a  blank  silence  for  a  moment — the  silence  of 
great  amaze.  He  looked  at  her  askance.  A  surprise  be- 
yond a  doubt,  but  a  pleasant  one.  Well,  that  was  another 
question.  Her  face  had  changed  ominously  all  in  a  mo- 
ment. 

"  To  Merryweather's  ? "  she  repeated.    "  Thirty  miles  I " 

"Exactly,  my  dear — to  stay  two  or  three  weeks,  as 
they've  been  wanting  you  to  do.  I  didn't  tell  you,  be- 
cause I  wanted  to  surprise  you.  I  knew  you  would  be 
pleased  to  death." 

"  But  uncle  I  can't ! "  exclamed  the  girl,  vehemently. 
"  I  can't  go.  I  have  nothing  to  wear.  My  trunk  and  all 
my  things  are  at  home." 

"  Jest  so ;  the  cutter  wouldn't  hold  your  trunk  ;  but  Joe, 
he's  going  out  'bout  the  end  of  the  week,  and  he'll  fetch  it. 


THE  LA  WYEIVS  WARNING. 


53 


Make  your  mind  easy,  my  dear ;  Aunt  Hetty  will  forget 
nothin'." 

Norine  made  no  reply.  The  sunny  face  wore  the  darkest 
expression  Uncle  Reuben  had  ever  seen  it  wear  yet.  Was 
Mr.  Gilbert  right — was  the  mischief  done — was  it  too  late, 
after  all  ? 

He  drove  on.  The  blank  silence  lasted.  He  had 
never  dreamed  the  laughing  face  of  his  little  Norine  could 
wear  the  look  it  wore  now.  She  spoke  after  a  long  pause, 
in  a  tone  of  sullen  inquiry : 

"  I  wish  you  had  told  me  last  night,  Uncle  Reuben.  It 
seems  very  odd  going  off  in  this  way.  What  will  Mr. 
Thorndyke  say  ? " 

"  What  business  is  it  of  his  ?  "  placidly  inquired  Uncle 
Reuben. 

An  angry  flush  rose  up  over  Norine's  face. 

"  He  will  think  it  very  strange — very  strange  ;  I  did  not 
even  say  good-by." 

"I'll  explain  all  that." 

"  And  Aunt  Hetty — how  will  she  ever  get  along  with- 
out me,  with  the  house  work  to  do,  and  Mr.  Thorndyke 
to  wait  on,  and  everything." 

"  He  won't  be  to  wait  on  long,  he'll  be  able  to  return 
to  his  friends  in  Portland  in  a  week,  and  to  tell  the  truth, 
I  shan't  be  sorry  to  be  rid  of  him.  As  for  you,  Norry,  by 
the  way  you  object,  one  would  think  you  didn't  want  to  go, 
after  all." 

Again  Norine  flushed  angrily. 

"  I  don't  object  to  going,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  that  con- 
tradicted her  words.  "  It  is  the  manner  of  going  I  don't 
like.  I  do  think  you  might  have  told  me  last  night,  Uncle 
Reuben." 


>■■ 


I? 
1^ 


m 


II 


s 


*!li 


■A 


I   I 


i 

ail 


i;  t 


£1  ';  * 


!■■ 


'^. 


54 


NO  NINE'S  REVENGE. 


Uncle  Reuben  stopped  the  cutter  abruptly,  and  looked 
•  at  her. 

"  Shall  I  turn  and  drive  back  ? "  he  asked. 

What  could  she  say  ?  The  black  eyes  emitted  an  angry 
flash,  the  voice  that  answered  was  sharp  and  petulant. 

"  No — go  on." 

He  drove  on,  without  another  word.  Norine  lay  back 
in  the  sleigh,  wrapped  her  cloak  about  her,  pulled  a  little 
•veil  she  wore,  over  her  face,  and  was  silent.  A  great 
fear,  a  great  dismay,  a  great  foreboding  filled  Uncle  Reu- 
ben's heart.  Had  this  girl  lived  with  them  so  long,  made 
herself  so  dear,  and  hidden  the  nature  that  was  within 
her,  after  all  ?  What  lay  under  luat  sparkling  surface  that 
had  seemed  as  clear  as  limpid  water  ?  Dark  depths  he 
could  never  fathom,  depths  undreamed  of  as  yet  by  herself. 
Was  she — ^he  wondered  this  vaguely,  with  a  keen  sense  of 
pain — the  gentle,  affectionate,  yielding  child  they  had 
thought  her,  or  a  self-willed,  passionate,  headstrong  woman, 
ready,  woman-like,  to  throw  over  her  oldest  and  truest 
lEriends  if  they  stood  between  her  and  the  man  she  loved  ? 


say, 
ther 
he  t 


She 

with 

dim 

For 

Mr. 

his 

r 

life 
weal 
ters. 
Nor: 


chaptp:r  v. 


"I    WILL      BE     YOUR    WIFE." 

ISS  Bourdon's  visit  to  the  family  of  Mr.  Abel 
Merryweather  lasted  just  three  weeks  and  two 
days,  and  unspeakably  dull  and  empty  the  old 
red  farmhouse  seemed  without  her.  Uncle  Joe 
had  gone  out  with  her  trunk  on  Saturday,  and  with  the 
news  that  everybody  was  well,  and  Mr.  Thorndyke  was 
to  go  for  gf^od  the  following  Monday. 

"  To  New  York  ?  "  Norine  asked,  turning  very  pale. 

"  I  reckon  so,*'  Uncle  Joe  responded,  coolly  ;  "  that's  to 
say,  he's  to  stop  a  few  days  in  Portland  with  his  friends 
there ;  he's  going  to  spend  the  rest  of  the  winter  South — so 
he  told  Hetty — down  to  Maryland  somewhere." 

Norine  set  her  lips,  and  turned  away  without  a  word. 
She  would  have  given  half  her  life  to  be  able  to  return 
with  Uncle  Joe,  but  she  was  far  too  proud  to  ask.  Some 
dim  inkling  of  the  truth  was  beginning  to  dawn  upon  her. 
For  some  cruel  reason  they  did  not  wish  her  to  be  with 
Mr.  Thorndyke,  and  they  had  sent  her  here  to  be  out  of 
his  way. 

They  were  the  dullest  three  weeks  of  the  young  lady's 
life.  It  was  a  pleasant  place,  too— Mr.  Abel  Merry- 
weather's,  with  a  jolly,  noisy  houseful  of  sons  and  daugh- 
ters, and  country  frolics  without  end.  Two  months  ago, 
Norine  had   looked  forward  to  this  visit  with  delight. 


i\ 


ih 


m 


1 1^ 
II  !i; 

Mi 


:  '"     I 


I       I 


'^,« 


'^ 


56 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


But  in  two  months  the  whole  world  had  changed ;  and 
now,  there  was  no  sunshine  in  heaven,  no  gladness  on 
earth,  since  a  well-looking,  well-dressed  young  man  from 
the  city  would  light  her  life  with  his  smile  no  more. 

Mr.  Thorndyke  did  depart  the  following  Monday.  He 
had  been  considerably  surprised  on  first  missing  Norine, 
and  inquired  of  Aunt  Hetty  where  she  was.  The  reply 
was  very  brief  and  reserved. 

"  Uncle  Reuben  has  taken  her  away  to  visit  some  friends." 
"  Mr.  Thorndyke  fixed  his  large,  blue  eyes  full  upon  the 
speaker's  face.     Aunt  Hester,  never  looking  at  him,  went 
on  arranging  the  furniture. 

"  How  long  will  she  be  gone  ?  "  he  asked,  at  length. 

"That  depends  upon  circumstances,"  replied  Miss 
Kent ;  "  probably  some  weeks." 

Mr.  Thorndyke  said  no  more.  Aunt  Hetty  poured  out 
his  tea,  arranged  his  buttered  toast  and  boiled  eggs,  and 
left  the  room.  It  had  been  Norine's  labor  of  love  hitherto, 
Norine's  bright  face  that  smiled  across  the  little  round 
table,  instead  of  the  withered,  sallow  one  of  Aunt  Hetty. 
He  sat  alone  now  over  his  noon-day  breakfast,  an  inex- 
plicable look  on  his  handsome  face. 

"  So,"  he  thought,  "  they  have  gone  even  farther  than  I 
anticipated,  thay  have  spirited  her  away  altogether.  Poor 
little  girl !  pretty  little  Norry  I  I  believe  I  am  really  fond 
of  you,  after  all.  I  wonder  if  she  went  willingly  ? "  he 
smiled  to  himself,  his  vanity  answered  that  question  pret- 
ty accurately.  "  It's  rather  hard  on  her,  a  modern  case 
of  Elizabeth  and  the  exiles.  It's  all  my  friend  Gilbert's 
doing,  of  course.  Very  well.  It  is  his  day  now,  it  may  be 
mine,  to  morrow. 

The  intervening  days  were  hopelessly  long  and  dreary 


*5 


J^ 


m 


"/  tV/LL  BE  YOUR  WIFE," 


57 


to  Mr.  Laurence  Thorndyke.  How  fond  he  had  grown 
of  that  sparkling  brunette  face,  those  limpid  eyes  of 
"liquid  light,"  he  never  knew  until  he  lost  her.  That 
pleasant,  homely  room  was  so  full  of  her — the  closed 
piano,  the  little  rocker  and  work -stand  by  the  window,  her 
beloved  books  and  birds.  Life  became,  all  in  an  hour, 
a  horrible  bore  in  that  dull  red  farm-house.  Come 
what  might  to  ankle  and  arm,  ailing  still,  he  would  go  at 
once.  He  dispatched  a  note  to  his  friends  in  Portland, 
and  early  on  Monday  morning  drove  away  with  Mr.  Thomas 
Lydyard,  his  friend. 

"  Good-by  Miss  Kent,"  he  said,  as  he  shook  hands 
with  her  on  the  doorstep.  "  I  can  never  repay  all  your 
kindness,  I  know,  but  I  will  do  my  best  if  the  opportunity 
ever  offers.  Give  my  very  best  regards  to  Miss  Bourdon, 
and  tell  her  how  much  I  regretted  her  running  away." 

And  so  he  was  gone.  Uncle  Reuben  watched  him  out 
of  sight  with  a  great  breath  of  relief. 

"Thank  the  Lord  he's  gone,  and  that  danger's  over." 

Ah,  was  it  ?  Had  you  known  Mr.  Laurence  Thorndyke 
better,  Reuben  Kent,  you  would  have  known,  also,  that  the 
danger  was  but  beginning. 

Mr.  Thorndyke  remained  four  days  with  his  friends  in 
the  city,  and  then  started  for  New  York.  Reuben  Kent 
heard  it  with  immense  relief  and  satisfaction. 

"He's  gone,  Hetty,"  he  said  to  his  sister,  "and  the 
good  Lord  send  he  may  never  cross  our  little  girl's  path 
again.  I  can  see  her  now,  with  the  color  fading  out  of 
her  face,  and  that  white  look  of  disappointment  coming 
over  it.     I  hope  she's  forgot  him  before  this." 

"  Will  you  go  for  her  to-day  ? "  Aunt  Hetty  asked.  "  It's 
dreadful  lonesome  without  her." 


ha 


iri 


58 


NORfNE'S  REVENGE. 


"  Not  to-day.  Next  week  will  do.  She'll  forget  him 
faster  there  than  here,  Hetty." 

It  wanted  but  three  days  of  Christmas  when  Uncle 
Reuben  went  for  his  niece,  and  it  was  late  on  Christmas 
eve  when  they  returned.  The  snow  was  piled  high  and 
white  everywhere.  The  trees  stood  up,  black,  rattling 
skeletons  around  the  old  house.  All  things  seemed  to 
have  changed  in  the  weeks  of  her  absence,  and  nothing 
jjiore  than  Norine  Bourdon. 

She  sank  down  in  a  chair,  in  a  tired,  spiritless  sort  of 
way,  and  let  Aunt  Hetty  remove  her  wraps.  She  had 
grown  thin,  u.  the  past  fortnight,  and  pale  and  worn-look- 
ing. 

"  You  precious  little  Norry,"  aunt  Hetty  Raid,  giving 
her  a  welcoming  hug.  "You  can't  tell  how  glad  we  are  to 
have  you  back  again  ;  how  dreadfully  we  missed  you.  I 
expect  you  enjoyed  your  visit  awfully  now  ? " 

"  No,"  the  young  girl  answered,  with  an  impatient  sigh  j 
it  was  dull." 

"  Dull,  Norry !  with  four  girls  and  three  young  men  in 
the  house  ? " 

"  Well,  it  was  dull  to  me.  I  didn't  care  for  their 
frolics  and  sleighing  parties  and  quilting  bees.  It  was 
horridly  stupid,  the  whole  of  it." 

"  Then  you  are  glad  to  be  home  again  ? " 

"Yes." 

She  did  not  look  particularly  glad,  however.  She 
leaned  her  head  against  the  back  of  the  chair,  and  closed 
her  eyes  with  weary  listlessness.  Aunt  Hetty  watched 
her  with  a  thrill  of  apprehension.  Was  her  fancy  for 
their  departed  guest  something  more  than  mere  fancy  ?— 
had  she  not  begun  even  to  forget  yet,  after  all  ? 


l 


SI 

thini 
<i 

gone 
II 

stay. 

II ' 


N 
face, 
long 

she  '. 

Nori 
II 

Is  ai 
"I 

« 

of  te 
W 
Nori 
plea 
char 
gree 
keer 
whit 
Bi 
deso 
befo 


m 


mam. 


m^ 


"/  IV/LL  BE  YOUR  WIFE." 


59 


She  opened  her  eyes  suddenly  while  Aunt  Hetty  was 
thinking  this,  and  spoke  abruptly. 

"  What  did  Mr.  Thorndyke  say  when  he  found  I  was 
gone  ? " 

"  Nothing.  Oh — he  asked  how  long  you  were  going  to 
stay. " 

"Was  that  all?" 

"  That  was  all." 

"  Did  he  not  inquire  where  I  had  gone  ? " 

"  No,  my  dear." 

Norine  said  no  more.  The  fire-light  shone  full  on  her 
face,  and  she  lifted  a  book  and  held  it  as  a  screen.  So 
long  she  sat  mute  and  motionless  that  Aunt  Hetty  fancied 
she  had  fallen  asleep.  She  laid  her  hand  on  her  shoulder. 
Norine's  black,  sombre  eyes  looked  up. 

"  I  thought  you  were  asleep,  my  dear,  you  sat  so  still. 
Is  anything  the  matter  ?  " 

"I  am  tired,  and  my  head  aches.  I  believe  I  will  go  to  bed. 

"  But,  Norry,  it  is  Christmas  five.  Supper  is  ready,  and — " 

"  I  can't  eat  supper — I  don't  wish  any.  Give  me  a  cup 
of  tea,  aunty,  and  let  me  go. " 

With  a  sigh,  aunty  obeyed,  and  slowly  and  wearily 
Norine  toiled  up  to  her  room.  It  was  very  cosy,  very 
pleasant,  very  home-like  and  warm,  that  snug  upper 
chamber,  with  its  striped,  home-made  carpet  of  scarlet  and 
green,  its  blazing  fire  and  shaded  lamp.  Outside,  the 
keen,  Christmas  stars  shone  coldly,  and  the  world  lay 
white  in  its  chill  winding  sheet  of  snow. 

But  Norine  thought  neither  of  the  comfort  within  nor  the 
desolation  without.  She  sank  down  into  a  low  chair 
before  the  fire  and  looked  blankly  into  the  red  coals. 

"  Gone  1 "    something   in  her   head   seemed   beating 


Ite*,- 


t 


1  ii' 

m 


Is 


60 


NOKINE'S  REVENGE. 


m\ 


r 


that  one  word, like  the  ticking  of  a  clock;  "gone— gone 
— gone  forever.     And  it  was  only  thirty  miles,  and  the 
cars  would  have  taken  him,  and  he  never  came.    And 
thought,  I  thought,  he  liked  me  a  little."* 

It  was  a  dismal  Christmas  eve  at  Kent  Farm  ;  how  were 
they  to  eat,  drink  and  be  merry  with  Norine  absent.  No  she 
had  not  begun  to  forget ;  the  mischief  was  wrought,  every 
room  in  the  house  was  haunted  by  the  image  of  the 
'lyouth  who  had  loved,  and  who  rode  away." 

The  New  Year  dawned,  passed,  and  the  ides  of  Feb- 
ruary came.  And  Norine — she  was  only  seventeen,  re- 
member, began  to  pluck  up  heart  of  grace  once  more,  and 
her  laugh  rang  out,  and  her  songs  began  to  be  as  merry, 
almost,  as  before  the  coming  and  going  of  Prince 
Charming.  Almost ;  the  woman's  heart  had  awakened  in 
the  girl's  breast,  and  the  old  childish  joyousness  could 
never  be  quite  the  same.  He  never  wrote,  she  never 
heard  his  name,  even  Mr.  Gilbert  had  ceased  to  write. 
March  came.  "Time,  that  blunts  the  edge  of  things, 
dries  our  tears  and  spoils  our  bliss,"  had  dried  all 
hers  long  ago,  and  the  splendor  of  Laurence  Thorndyke's 
image  was  wofuUy  dimmed  by  this  time.  Life  had  flown 
back  into  the  old,  dull  channels,  comfortable,  but  dull. 
No  letters  to  look  for  now  from  Mr.  Gilbert,  no  books,  no 
music,  everybody  forgot  her,  Richard  Gilbert,  Laurence 
Thorndyke — all. 

She  sighed  a  little  over  the  quilt  she  was  making — a 
wonderful  quilt  of  white  and  "  ""  arkey  red,"  a  bewilder- 
ing Chinese  puzzle  to  the  uninitiated.  It  was  a  dull  March 
afternoon,  cheerless  and  slushy,  the  house  still  as  a  tomb, 
and  no  living  thing  to  be  seen  in  the  outer  world,  as  she 
sat  alone  at  her  work. 


M': 


^^i^,^ 


^ 


"/  WILL  BE  YOUR  WIFE." 


6t 


"What  a  stupid,  dismal  humdrum  sort  of  life  it  is," 
Miss  Bourdon  thought,  drearily,  "  and  I  suppose  it  will 
go  on  for  thirty  or  forty  years  exactly  like  this,  and  I'll 
dry  up,  and  wrinkle  and  grow  yellow  and  ugly,  and  be  an 
old  maid  like  Aunt  Hetty.  I  think  it  would  be  a  great 
deal  better  if  some  people  never  were  born  at  all." 

She  paused  suddenly,  with  this  wise  generality  in  her 
mind.  A  man  was  approaching — a  tall  man,  a  familar  and 
rather  distinguished-looking  man.  One  glance  was  enough. 
With  a  cry  of  delight  she  dropped  the  Chinese-puzzle  quilt, 
sprang  up,  rushed  out,  and  plumped  full  into  the  arms  of 
the  gentleman. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Gilbert  I "  she  cried,  her  black  eyes,  her  whole 
face  radiant  with  the  delight  of  seeing  some  one,  "  how 
glad  I  am  to  see  you  I  It  has  been  so  dull,  and  I  thought 
you  had  forgotten  us  altogether.     Come  in — come  in." 

She  held  both  his  hands,  and  pulled  him  in.  Unhappy 
Richard  Gilbert  I  Who  is  to  blame  you  for  construing 
that  enthusiastic  welcome  to  suit  yourself  ?  In  fear  and 
foreboding,  you  had  approached  that  house — ^you  had 
looked  for  coldness,  aversion,  reproaches,  perhaps.  You 
had  nerved  yourself  to  bear  them,  and  defend  yourself, 
and  instead — fAis. 

His  sallow  face  flushed  all  over  with  a  delight  more 
vivid  than  her  own.  For  one  delicious  moment  his  breath 
stopped. 

"  And  so  you  have  thought  of  me,  Norine  I  " 

"  Oh,  so  often !  And  hoped,  and  longed,  and  looked 
for  your  coming.  But  you  never  came,  and  you  never 
wrote,  and  I  was  sure  you  had  forgotten  me  altogether." 

Here  was  an  opening,  and — he  let  it  fall  dead  1  He 
might  be  a  clever  lawyer,  but  certainly  he  was  not  a  clever 


ili!  f 


il 


lir 

far 

^5  ij :; 


f 


62 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


lover.  He  was  smiling,  and  yes,  actually  blushing,  and 
tingling  with  delight  to  his  finger  ends.  Her  radiant, 
blooming  face  was  upturned  to  him,  the  bl  ck  eyes  lifted 
and  dancing,  and  he  looked  down  upon  those  sparkling 
charms,  and  in  a  flat  voice — said  this : 

"  We  have  had  a  great  deal  of  snow  lately.  How  are 
your  uncles  and  aunts  ? " 

But  the  young  lady's  enthusiasm  was  not  in  the  least 
dampened.  He  was  her  friend,  not  her  lover,  he  was  a 
kindly  gleam  of  sunshine  across  tlie  dead  level  of  her  sad- 
colored  life. 

"  They  are  all  very  well,  thank  you,  Mr.  Gilbert,  and 
will  be  very  glad  to  see  you.  Sit  down  and  take  off  your 
overcoat.  You'll  stay  for  tea,  won't  you,  and  all  night  ? 
Oh,  how  pleasant  it  is  to  see  you  back  here  again  I  " 

Happy  Mr.  Gilbert  1  And  yet,  if  he  had  stopped  to  an- 
alyze that  frank,  glad,  sisterly  welcome,  he  would  have 
known  it  the  most  ominous  thing  on  earth  for  his  hopes. 
Had  he  been  Laurence  Thorndyke  she  would  never  have 
welcomed  him  like  this.  But  just  now  he  took  the  goods 
the  gods  provided,  and  never  stopped  to  analyze. 

"  Perhaps  I  was  mistaken  after  all  about  Thorndyke," 
he  thought,  "  he  has  gone  for  good,  and  I  never  saw  her 
look  more  brightly  blooming.  Atter  all  a  girl's  fancy  for 
a  handsome  face,  and  a  flirting  manner,  need  not  be  very 
deep  or  lasting.  It  was  only  a  fancy,  and  died  a  natural 
death  in  a  week.  How  fortunate  I  spoke  in  time,  and 
how  clear  and  true  she  rings  1  I  will  ask  her  to  be  my 
wife  before  I  leave  Kent  Farm." 

He  had  come  to  ctake  his  fate — "  to  win  or  lose  it  all," 
to  lay  his  life  at  her  ixet,  but  he  had  hoped  for  nothing 
like  this.     He  loved  her — he  knew  it  now  as  your  staid 


"/  WILL  BE  YOUR  WIFE." 


63 


middle-aged  men  do  once  in  a  lifetime.  He  had  waited 
until  he  could  wait  no  longer — she  might  refuse,  he  had 
little  hope  of  anything  else,  but  then  at  least,  any  cer- 
tainty was  better  than  suspense. 

Mr.  Gilbert's  greeting  from  the  Kent  family  was  all 
that  mortal  man  could  look  for.  They  had  guessed  his 
secret;  perhaps  they  also  guessed  his  object  in  coming 
now.  He  was  very  rich,  and  above  them  no  doubt,  but 
was  there  king  or  kaiser  in  all  the  world  too  good  for  their 
beautiful  Norine. 

He  stayed  to  tea.  After  that  meal,  while  Aunt  Hetty 
was  busy  in  the  kitchen,  and  the  men  about  the  farm-yard, 
he  found  himself  alone  in  the  'ront  room  with  Miss  Bour- 
don. She  stood  looking  out  through  the  undrawn  curtains 
at  the  still,  white,  melancholy  winter  night. 

The  first  surprise  and  delight  of  the  meeting  past,  she 
had  grown  very  still.  His  coming  had  brought  other 
memories  rushing  upon  her  as  she  stood  here  in  that  pret- 
ty attitude  looking  out  at  the  frosty  stars. 

She  was  nerving  herself  to  ask  a  question.  Without  turn- 
ing round,  and  speaking  very  carelessly,  she  isked  it. 

"  I  suppose  Mr.  Thorndyke  is  in  New  York.  Have  you 
seen  him  lately  ? " 

A  jealous  pang  shot  through  the  lawyer's  heart.  She 
remembered  yet. 

"  I  see  him  very  often,"  he  answered,  promptly,  and  a 
little  coldly ;  "  I  saw  him  the  day  I  left.  He  is  about  to 
be  married." 

She  was  standing  with  her  back  to  him,  fluttering  in  a 
restless  sort  of  way.    As  he  said  this  she  suddenly  grew  still. 

"  The  match  is  a  very  old  affair,"  Mr.  Gilbert  went  on, 
resolutely ;  "  he  has  been  engaged  nearly  two  years.     His 


)♦ 


if 


1: 


m 


I 

in 


Pf 


ft 


n- 


64 


NORlNErS  REVENGE. 


uncle,  Mr.  Darcy,  wishes  it  very  much.  The  young  lady 
is  an  heiress,  and  extremely  handsome.  They  are  very 
much  attached  to  one  another,  it  is  said,  and  are  to  be 
married  early  in  the  spring. 

She  did  not  move— she  did  not  speak.  A  blank  uncom- 
fortable silence  followed,  and  once  more  poor  Mr.  Gilbert's 
heart  contracted  with  a  painful  jealous  spasm.  If  she 
would  only  turn  round  and  let  him  see  her  face.  Who  was 
to  understand  these  girls  I 

"  What !  all  in  the  dark,  Norry  ?  "  cried  Uncle  Reuben's 
cheery  voice,  as  he  came  bustling  in  redolent  of  stable 
odors.     "  Come,  light  up,  and  give  Mr.  Gilbert  a  song." 

She  obeyed  at  once.  The  glare  of  the  lamp  fell  full 
upon  her,  what  change  was  it  that  he  saw  in  her  face  ? 
She  was  hardly  paler  than  usual,  she  rarely  had  much 
color,  but  there  was  an  expression  about  the  soft-cut  child- 
ish mouth,  an  unpleasant  tightness  about  the  lips  that  quite 
altered  the  whole  expression  of  the  face. 

She  opened  the  piano  and  sung— sung  and  played  bet- 
ter than  he  had  ever  heard  her  before.  She  sang  for 
hours,  everything  she  knew— Mr.  Thorndyke's  favorites 
and  all.  She  never  rose  until  the  striking  of  ten  told  her 
that  bedtime  had  come. 

The  lawyer  stayed  all  night ;  but  in  that  pleasant  guest- 
chamber  that  had  lodged  his  rival  last,  he  slept  little.  Was 
she  in  love  with  Thorndyke,  or  was  she  not  ?  Impossible  to 
judge  these  women— any  girl  in  her  teens  can  baffle  the 
shrewdest  lawyer  of  them  all.  He  lay  tossing  about  full  of 
hope,  of  love,  of  jealousy,  of  doubt,  his  fever  at  its  very 
climax. 

"  I'll  endure  this  torture  no  longer,"  he  resolved,  sullen- 
ly.    "  I'll  ask  her  to  marry  me  to-morrow." 


H 


"/  WILL  BE  YOUR  IVIFE." 


65 


V/ith  Richard  Gilbert  to  resolve  was  to  act.  Five  sec- 
onds after  they  had  met,  shaken  hands,  and  said  good- 
morning,  he  proposed  a  sleigh  ride.  The  day  was  mild 
and  sunny,  the  sleighing  splendid,  and  a  sleigh  ride  to  a 
New  Yorker  a  rare  and  delightful  luxury.  Would  she  go  ? 
Yes,  she  would  go,  but  Miss  Bourdon  said  it  spiritlessly 
enough.  And  so  the  sleigh  was  brought  round,  and  at  ten 
o'clock  in  the  crisp,  yellow  sunshine,  the  pair  started. 

But  it  must  have  been  a  much  duller  spirit  than  that  of 
Norine  that  could  have  remained  dull  in  that  dazzling  sun- 
shine, that  swift  rush  through  the  still  frozen  air.  A  lovely 
rose-pink  came  into  her  pale  cheeks,  a  bright  light  into 
her  brown  eyes,  her  laugh  rang  out,  she  was  herself  as 
he  had  first  known  ner  once  more. 

"  How  splendid  winter  is,  after  all  I  "  she  exclaimed ; 
"  look  at  those  crystallized  hemlocks — did  you  ever  see 
anything  so  beautiful  ?  I  sometimes  wonder  how  I  can  find 
it  so  dreary." 

"  You  do  find  it  dreary,  then  ? " 

"  Oh,  so  dreary — so  long — so  humdrum — so  dull ! "  She 
checked  herself  with  one  of  her  pretty  French  gestures. 
"  It  seems  ungrateful  to  say  so,  but  I  can't  help  it.  Life 
seems  hardly  worth  the  living  sometimes  here." 

"  Here  I    Would  it  be  better  elsewhere  ? " 

"  Yes — I  think  so.     Change  is  always  pleasant.     One 
grows  dull  and  stupid  living  in  one  dull  stupid  place  for-  ° 
ever.     Change  is  what  I  want,  novelty  is  delight." 

"  Let  me  offer  it  to  you  then,  Norine.  Come  to  New 
York  w#h  me." 

"  Mr.  Gilbert  I    With  you  I  " 

"  With  me — as  my  wife,  I  love  you,  Norine." 

It  was  said.    The  old  formula,  the  commonplace  words 


<\\ 


H 


66   . 


NORTNE'S  REVENGE. 


!!.«' 


m 


that  are  to  tell  all  that  is  in  a  heart  full  to  overflowing.  He 
sat  very  pale,  beyond  that  and  a  certain  nervous  twitching 
of  his  face  there  was  nothing  to  tell  that  all  the  happiness 
of  his  life  hung  on  her  reply.  For  her — she  just  looked  at 
him  blankly,  incredulous — ^with  wide  open  eyes  of  wonder. 

"  Your  wife !    Marry  you  !    Mr.  Gilbert  1 " 

"I  love  you,  Norine.  It  seems  strange  you  have  not 
known  it  until  I  tell  it.  I  am  double  your  age,  but  I  will 
do  my  best  to  make  you  happy.  Ah,  Norine,  if  you  knew 
how  long  I  have  thought  of  this — how  dearly  I  love  you, 
you  would  surely  not  refuse.  I  am  a  rich  man,  and  all  I  have 
is  yours.  The  world  you  have  longed  to  see,  you  shall 
see.    Be  my  wife  Norine,  and  come  with  me  to  New  York." 

The  first  shock  of  surprise  was  over.  She  sat  very  still, 
looking  straight  out  before  her  at  the  dazzling  expanse  of 
sun  and  snow.  His  words  awoke  no  answering  thrill  in 
her  heart,  and  yet  she  was  conscious  of  a  sense  of  pleasure. 
Be  his  wife — well,  why  not  ?  The  prospect  of  a  new  life 
broke  upon  her — the  bright,  exciting,  ever-new  life  of  a 
great  city.     She  thought  of  that,  not  of  Richard  Gilbert. 

"Speak  to  me,  Norine,"  he  said,  "for  Heaven's  sake 
don't  sit  silent  like  this — only  to  answer  no.  For  good  or 
evil,  let  me  have  my  answer  at  once." 

But  still  she  sat  mute.  She  had  lost  Laurence  Thorn- 
dyke — lost — nay  he  had  never  been  hers  for  one  poor 
second.  He  belonged  to  that  beautiful,  high-bred  heiress 
whom  he  was  to  marry  in  the  spring.  She  would  read  it 
in  the  papers  some  day,  and  then — her  own  blank,  empty, 
aimless  life  spread  before  her.  She  turned  suddenly  to 
the  man  beside  her,  with  something  of  the  look  her  face 
had  worn  last  night  when  she  had  first  heard  of  Thorndyke's 
marriage. 


good 


> 


«/  WILL  BE  YOUR  WIFE." 


67 


"  You  are  very  good,"  she  answered,  quite  steadily.  "  I 
will  be  your  wife  if  you  like." 

"  Thank  Heaven  I " — he  said  under  his  breath.  "  Thank 
Heaven ! " 

Her  heart  smote  her.  She  was  giving  him  so  little — he 
was  giving  her  so  much.  He  had  always  been  her  good, 
kind,  faithful  friend,  and  she  had  liked  him  so  much. 
Yes,  that  was  just  it,  she  liked  him  so  well  she  could  never 
love  him.     But  at  least  she  would  be  honest. 

"  I — I  don't  care  for — I  mean  I  don't  love "  she  broke 

down,  her  eyes  fixed  on  her  mutt.  '^Oh,  Mi.  Gilbert,  I 
do  like  you,  but  not  like  that.  I — I  know  I'm  not  half 
good  enough  ever  to  marry  you." 

He  smiled,  a  smile  of  great  content. 

"  You  will  let  me  be  the  judge  of  that,  Norry.  You  are 
quite  sure  you  like  me  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes.  I  always  did,  you  know,  but  I  never — no 
never  thought  you  cared  for —  Oh,  dear  me !  how  odd  it 
seems.    What  will  Uncle  Reuben  say  ? " 

Mr  Gilbert  smiled  again. 

"  Uncle  Reuben  won't  lose  his  senses  with  surprise,  I 
fancy.  Ah,  Norry,  Uncle  Reuben's  eyes  are  not  half  a 
quarter  so  bright  nor  so  black  as  yours,  but  he  has  seen 
more  than  you  after  all." 

And  then  all  the  way  home  he  poured  into  her  pleased 
listening  ear  the  story  of  her  future  life.  It  sounded  like 
a  fairy  tale  to  the  country  girl.  A  dazzling  vista  spread 
before  her,  a  long  life  in  "  marble  halls,"  Brussels  carpets, 
satin  u^olstery,  a  grand  piano,  pictures,  books,  and  new 
music  without  end.  Silk  dresses,  diamond  ear-rings,  the 
theatres,  the  opera,  a  carriage,  a  waiting-maid — French,  if 
possible  —  her  favorite  heroines  all  had  French  maids. 


J?%. 


68 


NOR /NETS  REVENGE. 


Long  Branch,  Newport,  balls,  dinners — her  head  swam 
with  the  dazzle  and  delight  of  it  all.  Be  his  wife — of 
course  she  would  be  his  wife — to-morrow,  if  it  were  prac- 
ticable. 

But  she  did  not  say  this,  you  understand.  Her  face  was 
all  rosy  and  dimpling  and  smiling  as  they  drove  home ; 
and  alas  for  Richard  Gilbert,  how  little  he  personally  had 
to  do  with  all  that  girlish  rapture.  He  saw  that  well- 
pleased  face,  and,  like  a  wise  man,  asked  no  useless  ques- 
tions. She  was  going  to  be  his  wife,  everything  was  said 
in  that. 


\\\ 


)♦ 


CHAPTER  VI. 


BEFORE  THE   WEDDINO. 

jHE  sober  March  twilight  lay  low  on  the  snowy 
earth  when  the  sleigh  whirled  up  to  the  door. 
The  red  fire-light  shone  through  the  windows, 
and  they  could  see  Aunt  Hetty  bustling  about 
the  kitchen.  Neit.,.f  had  spoken  for  a  time,  but  now 
Norine  turned  to  him,  as  she  lightly  sprang  out. 

"Say  nothing  of  this  to-night,"  she  said,  hurriedly; 
"wait  until  to-morrow." 

She  was  gone  before  he  could  answer,  and  he  drove 
round  to  the  stable.  Uncle  Reuben  was  there,  and  Mr. 
Gilbert  remained  with  him  until  Aunt  Hetty's  voice  was  heard 
calling  them  to  supper.  The  lawyer  was  standing  in  the 
doorway,  watching  the  solemn  stars  come  out,  a  great 
silent  grayity  on  his  face.  But  oh,  so  happy,  too — so  deep- 
ly,  unutterably  happy. 

The  supper  table  was  spread,  lamp-light  beamed,  fire- 
light glowed,  and  Aunt  Hetty  awaited  them  impatient,  lest 
her  warm  milk  biscuits  and  sugared  "  flap-jacks "  should 
grow  cold. 

Norine  stood  leaning  against  the  mantel,  looking  dream- 
ily into  the  red  fire.  How  pale  she  was,  how  strangely 
grave  and  thoughtful.  Yet  not  unhappy,  surely,  for  she 
glanced  up  in  her  lover's  face  with  a  quick  blush  and 


>• 


«!■  ^ 


si 


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in 


I.' 


H: 


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£ 


SM  j't 


i; 


It! 


ill 


70 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


smile,  and  talked  to  him  shyly  throughout  supper.  La- 
ter still  she  played  and  sang  for  him  the  songs  and  pieces  he 
liked  best,  played  a  game  of  euchre  with  him,  and  if  she 
thought  of  Laurence  Thorndyke,  who  had  taught  her  the 
game,  Richard  Gilbert  did  not  know  it. 

"  She  will  learn  to  love  me,"  he  thought.  "  My  pretty, 
dark-eyed  darling  1  I  will  love  her  so  much.  I  will  so 
gratify  her  in  everything.  I  will  be  so  devoted,  in  all 
ways,  that  she  cannot  help  it.  Please  Heaven,  her  life  shall 
be  a  happy  one  with  me." 

Norine  retired  early.  Her  long  drive  had  made  her 
tired  and  sleepy  she  said  ;  but  she  did  not  go  to  sleep. 

Moon  and  stars  shone  crystal  clear,  pearly  bright.  She 
blew  out  her  lamp,  wrapped  a  shawl  about  her,  and  sat 
down  by  the  window.  Weirdly  still  lay  everything,  ivory 
light,  ebony  shadows,  no  sound  but  the  rattling  of  the 
skeleton  trees  in  the  wintry  night  wind.  No  living  thing 
was  visible  far  or  near.  There  was  only  the  star-gemmed 
sky  above,  the  chill,  white  world  below.  She  could  read 
her  heart  in  the  holy  hush  of  the  night,  and  look  into  the 
life  that  was  dawning  for  her,  by  its  solemn  light.  Rich- 
ard Gilbert's  wife  I  How  strange  and  unreal  that  seemed. 
She  liked  him  very  much  as  she  might  have  liked  an 
indulgent  elder  brother,  but  love  him — no  I  She  might 
have  deluded  herself  into  thinking  so,  had  Laurence 
Thomdyke's  splendid  image  never  dazzled  her.  She 
knew  better  now — the  knowledge  had  come  upon  her  all 
at  once,  transforming  her  from  a  child  to  a  woman. 

•*  If  I  had  never  met  him,"  she  thought,  "  I  might  have 
been  a  happy  wife,  but  now  1  Now  can  I  ever  learn  to  for- 
get him,  and  to  give  Mr.  Gilbert  his  place  ?" 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  alone  as  she  was. 


BEFORE  THE  WEDDING. 


n 


Alas  for  Richard  Gilbert  I  congratulating  himself  at  that 
very  moment  on  having  won  for  his  very  own  the  fairest, 
the  sweetest,  the  truest  of  her  sex. 

Miss  Bourdon  sat  mournfully  musing  there  until  long 
past  bedtime,  long  past  midnight.  Moonlight  and  star- 
light paled  presently,  the  prospect  grew  gloomy,  the  air 
bitter  cold,  and  shivering  and  miserable,  the  girl  crept 
away  to  bed.  Even  then  she  could  not  sleep — her  nerves 
were  all  unstrung  and  on  edge.  She  lay  broad  awake 
trying  to  imagine  what  her  life  would  be  like  as  Mr.  Gil- 
bert's wife.  The  fairy  world  of  her  dreams  and  her 
books  would  open  to  her.  Costly  dresses  and  jewels,  a 
fine  house  in  New  York,  her  carriage  and  servants,  sum- 
mer travel  and  winter  balls — all  this  he  had  promised  her. 
And  there  in  the  midst  of  it  all,  once  again  she  would 
meet  Laurence  Thorndike.  It  would  be  part  of  the 
romance,  she  as  the  wife,  he  as  the  husband  of  another, 
and  the  weak  silly  heart  fluttering  under  the  bedclothes, 
gave  a  great  bound.  Then  she  remembered  that  it  would 
be  wicked  to  wish  to  see  him — a  sin  to  be  happy  in  his 
presence ;  but  do  what  she  would,  the  hope  of  meeting 
him  again,  was  at  the  bottom  of  her  willingness  to  become 
the  lawyer's  wife. 

When  Norine  descended  to  breakfast  next  morning,  she 
found  Mr.  Gilbert  standing  in  the  open  doorway,  looking 
out  at  the  frosty  sunshine.  He  came  forward  to  meet  her, 
his  face  suddenly  radiant. 

"  I  have  been  waiting  to  waylay  you,"  he  said,  smiling, 
"  I  want  you  to  let  me  tell  your  uncle  to-day." 

"  You  are  in  a  hurry,"  Norine  answered,  rather  impa- 
tiently. 

"  Yes,  my  darling.    Why  should  I  not  be?    And  Ire- 


72 


NO  FINE'S  REVENGE. 


\% 


turn  to  New  York  early  next  week.  You  say  yes— do  you 
not,  Norine  ? " 

She  smiled,  and  gave  him  her  hand.  She  had  said  "  yes  " 
to  a  more  important  proposition,  he  had  been  very  good 
to  her,  why  should  she  not  please  him  ? 

"  Do  as  you  like,  Mr.  Gilbert.  Tell  my  uncle  i£  you 
choose." 

"  And  if  he  consents,  Norine— as  I  think  he  will— when 
shall  I  tell  him  our  marriage  is  to  take  place?  I  want  it 
to  be  soon,  my  dearest  girl,  very  soon,  for  I  don't  feel  as 
though  I  could  live  much  longer  without  you.  Come,  my 
little  wife  I  name  an  early  day." 

"  Oh,  I  cannot  I   I  don't  know  when.    Next  summer  some 

time." 

"  That  is  indefinite,"  he  laughed.  "  Allow  me  to  be  de- 
finite.    Say  early  next  May." 

"  No,  no,  no !  that  is  too  soon— greatly  too  soon  I  I 
couldn't  be  ready." 

"  Then,  when  ?  I  won't  be  selfish,  but  you  must  be  mer- 
ciful, mademoiselle,  and  not  keep  me  in  suspense  too  long." 

She  laughed  her  old  gay  laugh. 

"  Patience,  monsieur  ;  patience  stands  chief  among  the 
virtues.      Will  June  do — the  last  ? " 

"The  first,  Norine." 

Aunt  Hetty  was  coming  through  the  hall.  Norine  dart- 
ed away. 

"  Have  it  as  you  will  I   Don't  you  want  me  to  help  you 

with  breakfast,  auntie  ? " 

Mr.  Gilbert  smilingly  looked  after  his  bright  little  prize, 
so  soon  to  be  his  bright  little  wife,  then  turned  to  Aunt  Hetty. 

"  Where  is  your  brother  this  morning,  Miss  Kent  ?  I 
wish  to  speak  to  him." 


■*■  ^% 


BEFORE   THE  IVEDD/A'G. 


73 


"  In  the  stable,  I  think.    Shall  I  go  and  see  ? " 

"  Not  at  all.     I  will  go  myself." 

He  walked  away,  humming  a  tune,  in  the  happiness  of 
his  heart.  Ah  1  shone  ever  winter  sun  so  brightly  before, 
looked  ever  the  work-a-day  world  so  paradisiacal  as  now  1 
Tlie  earth  and  all  thereon  was  transformed  as  with  an  en- 
chanter's wand  to  this  middle-aged  legal  gentleman  in 
love. 

Uncle  Renben,  busy  among  his  cattle,  looked  up  in 
some  surprise  at  sight  of  his  early  visitor. 

"Don't  let  me  interfere  with  your  work,  Kent,"  the 
lawyer  said.  "  You  can  attend  to  your  horses  and  listen, 
too.  I  must  leave  the  day  after  to-morrow  ;  my  business 
has  been  too  long  neglected,  and  I  have  something  of  im- 
portance to  tellyQu  before  I  go.  Something  I  hope— I 
believe,  you  will  notT>e  sorry  to  hear." 

The  eyes  of  the  two  men  met.  There  was  a  peculiar 
smile  on  the  lawyer's  face,  a  happy  light  in  his  eyes,  and 
Reuben  Kent's  countenance  grew  suddenly  bright  with 
intelligence. 

"  Is  it  about  Norry  ?  " 

A  smile  and  a  nod  answered  him. 

"  Then  I  reckon  I  can  guess.  You  have  asked  her  to 
marry  you  ? " 

"  Exactly.  But  how,  in  the  name  of  everything  wonder- 
ful have  you  found  it  out .'  " 

Uncle  Reuben's  eyes  twinkled  shrewdly. 

"  I  ain't  a  lawyer,  Mr.  Gilbert,  but  I  can  see  as  far  into 
a  milestone  as  any  other  man.  Do  you  think  I  s'posed  it 
was  to  see  me  and  Joe  and  Hetty  you  came  to  Kent  Hill 
so  often  ?  No,  sir !  I  see  you  had  a  hankering  after  our 
little  girl  from  the  first." 

4 


i% 


74 


NOR  MPS  REVENGE. 


!.  '  x ; 


:.:',? 


Mr.  Gilbert  actually  blushed.  And  he  had  guarded  his 
precious  secret  so  carefully,  he  had  thought. 

"  Well,  Mr.  Kent,  I  trust  I  have  your  approval  ?  " 

Reuben  Keui  stretched  out  his  big  brown  paw,  and 
grasped  the  lawyer's  white  hand. 

"  I  give  her  to  you  with  all  my  heart,  sir.  I'd  rather  see 
her  your  wife  than  the  wife  of  the  President.  I've  been 
hoping  this  long  time  it  would  come  to  this.  She's  a  good 
girl,  as  good  as  she's  pretty,  and  I  know  she'll  make  you 
a  good  wife." 

Not  one  word  of  the  honor  done  them  or  her  by  the 
wealthy  lawyer's  offer — not  one  thought  of  it.  In  Reuben 
Kent's  eyes  no  king  or  kaiser  on  the  wide  earth  would 
have  been  too  good  for  his  beautiful  Norine. 

"  And  when  is  it  to  be,  sir  ? "  he  asked. 

"  The  wedding? "  smiled  Mr.  Gilbert.  " The  first  week 
of  June.  If  I  possibly  can,  I  will  run  down  here  once  or 
twice  between  this  and  then,  but  I  am  doubtful  of  its 
being  possible.  I  have  neglected  business  somewhat  of 
late,  and  it  has  accumulated.  You  will  tell  your  brother 
and  sister,  Kent  ? " 

They  walked  back  to  the  house  together  to  breakfast. 
Norine  saw  in  her  unck's  face  that  he  had  been  told,  and 
blushed  beautifully.  How  very,  very  near  and  real,  it 
seemed  to  bring  it,  this  telling  Uncle  Reuben. 

Mr.  Gilbert  took  her  out  for  a  walk  after  breakfast,  and 
Uncle  Reuben  availed  himself  of  the  opportunity  to 
inform  his  sister  and  brother.  They  were  no  more  sur- 
prised than  he  had  been,  and  equally  pleased,  but  Aunt 
Hetty  cried  quietly,  woman-fashion,  for  all  that. 

"  We  will  miss  her  so  much,"  she  said  j  "  the  old  house 
will  seem  like  a  tomb  without  her.     He  is  a  good  man,  a 


I'  •  i 


I 


PEFORE   THE   WEDDING. 


75 


rich  m.in,  and  a  gentleman — I  ought  to  rejoice  for  her 
sal<e,  but  it  docs  seem  hard  at  first  to  give  her  up  for 
good." 

"These  things  will  happen,  Hetty,"  said  Uncle  Reu- 
ben, philosophically,  but  sighing,  too;  "it's  nater.  We 
ought  to  think  of  nothing  but  the  Lord's  goodness  in 
giving  her  such  a  man  as  Mr.  Gilbert  for  a  husband." 

So  it  was  settled.  When  Norine  came  back  from  her 
walk.  Aunt  Hetty  kissed  her,  shook  hands  with  the  lawyer, 
and  the  betrothal  was  quietly  over.  There  was  no  scene, 
and  no  tears,  but  the  good  wishes  for  both,  were  none  the 
less  heartfelt  for  that. 

The  day  after  to-morrow  came.  Mr.  Gilbert  went,  and 
the  preparations  for  the  wedding  began.  Norine's  "set- 
ting out "  was  to  be  on  a  scale  of  unprecedented  magnif- 
icence. Uncle  Reuben  had  money,  and  did  not  grudge 
spending  it.  Aunt  Hetty  took  her  into  town,  and  a  whole 
day  was  spent  shopping — the  big  family  carryall  went 
home  in  the  evening  filled  to  repletion  with  dry  goods. 
A  seamstress  and  a  dressmaker  were  engaged,  both  to 
come  out  on  the  following  day,  and  Norine,  in  the  pleasant 
bustle  and  hurry,  actually  forgot  Laurenge  Thorndyke  for 
eight  consecutive  hours. 

The  two  seamstresses  came  to  Kent  Hill  the  following 
morning,  and  great  and  mighty  were  the  measuring  and 
cutting  that  ensued.  The  "  keeping  room,"  was  given  up 
to  them  and  the  bride  elect,  and  all  day  long,  and  for 
many  days  after,  their  busy  needles  flew.  Before  the  end 
of  the  week  it  was  know  far  and  wide  that  pretty  Norry 
Kent,  as  she  was  called  there,  had  made  a  great  conquest, 
and  was  about  to  be  married  to  one  of  the  richest  lawyers 
in  New  York. 


;♦ 


lit] 


76 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


Mr.  Gilbert's  letters  came  like  clock-work  every  week, 
and  Ncrine's  replies  went  dutifully  the  day  after.  They 
were  not  much  like  love-letters  on  either  side,  particularly 
on  hers,  but  Mr.  Gilbert's  were  deeply  and  tenderly  affec- 
tionate, better  than  all  the  rhapsodies  ever  written.  His 
presents,  too — and  such  presents,  poured  in,  in  a  cease- 
less stream.  Jewelry  that  half  turned  the  pretty  bride's 
head  with  its  dazzling  splendor,  laces  that  fairy  fingers 
alone  could  have  woven,  pretty,  costly  bijouterie  of  all  kinds. 

"  How  good  he  is — how  good  he  is !  "  Norine  thought, 
in  a  burst  of  gratitude.  "  I  ought  to  love  him — I  will 
love  him — who  could  help  it  in  time,  and  I  v/ill  make  him 
as  happy  as  ever  I  can." 

She  mifljht  have  kept  her  word ;  it  would  surely  have 
been  no  impossible  task  to  learn  to  love  Richard  Gilbert. 
She  meant  it  in  all  sincerity — his  generosity  had  already 
kindled  a  deeper  feeling  than  me'-e  gratitude  in  her  heart. 
The  dazzle  of  Laurence  Thornd)ke's  image  was  slowly 
but  surely  dimming,  and  she  could  sing  blithely  once 
more  as  she  bent  over  her  work,  or  ^ripped  about  the 
rooms.  Who  could  be  unhappy  in  white  silk  and  lus- 
trous pearls,  orange  blossoms  and  Mechlin  lace,  with  rich 
rings  a-sparkle  on  every  finger,  and  glittering  bracelets 
clasping  the  lovely  arms  ?  The  color  came  back  to  Miss 
Bourdon's  cheek,  the  girlish  brightness  to  her  lovely 
Canadian  eyes — once  more  her  gay  girl's  laugh  rang  out — 
once  more  the  tripping  French  ballads  made  melody 
through  the  old  gray  rooms.  You  see  she  was  not  quite 
eighteen,  poor  child,  and  so  much  is  possible  for  young 
persons  of  eighteen. 

The  weeks  flew  by — busy  dreams  ;  March  passed,  Apn! 
passed.    The  wedding  day  was  drawing  very  near.      May 


came 
thefi 
be  tl 
work 
and  ' 
and  I 
in  th( 
and  I 
be  he 
her  i 
Hill 
serpe 


' 


^ 


Ell 


Ml&l 


BEFORE   THE  WEDDING. 


77 


came,  mellow  with  sweet  spring  blossoms  and  sunshine,  and 
the  first  half  was  over.  The  first  Thursday  in  June  was  to 
be  the  day  of  days,  not  quite  a  fortnight  off  now.  The 
world  had  woke  up  for  her  wedding,  Norine  thought,  snow 
and  dreariness  were  gone,  spring,  in  Eden-like  freshness 
and  bloom  was  with  them.  All  day  long  the  birds  sang 
in  the  sunlight ;  the  garden  was  gay  with  odorous  grasses 
and  blossoms.  In  three  days  more  the  bridegroom  would 
be  here  to  claim  his  bride,  to  leave  no  more  until  he  bore 
her  away  by  his  side.  Yes,  it  was  a  new  Eden.  Kent 
Hill  in  its  spring-tide  resurrection,  but,  as  once  before,  the 
serpent  was  close  at  hand. 


1% 


■m 


1 1 

lit 

m 

I! 


IF 


|||:l; 


;'  ft  ! 


CHAPTER  VII. 


THE  GATHERING  STORM. 


HE  last  week  came — the  last  night  of  the  last 

week. 

A  radiant  moonlight  night.     Over  the  blue 

.  listy  hill-tops  the  silver  half-moon  sailed,  and 
at  the  garden  gate  stood  the  pretty  bride  elect,  alone, 
gazing  with  eyes  of  dreamy  darkness  at  the  mystic,  light. 
N'l  soui\d  but  the  "sounds  of  the  silence"  broke  her 
reverie,  he  twitter  of  a  bird  in  its  nest,  the  light  flutver 
of  the  cool  wind,  the  slipping  of  a  snake  in  the  under- 
brush. Gretn  ana  silvery  spread  the  wide  fields  of  Ker  t 
Hill ;  dark,  cool  and  perfumy  the  pine  woods,  long  and 
white  the  dusty,  high  nad — over  all  the  spr":kling  stan\ 
and  crystal  moon. 

Leaning  on  the  gate,  stood  Norin».  A  trifle  thinner 
and  paler  than  of  old,  very  pale  in  the  cold,  white  :r<oon- 
rays,  but  very  fair  a..d  sweet  the  mignonne  face.  Something 
almost  pathetic  in  the  pallid  beauty  of  the  night  touched 
her,  the  great  dark  eyes  looked  v.ith  wistful  sadness  up 
to  the  starry  sky.  She  stood  there  thinking  of  the  new 
life  to  begin  in  a  few  days  now — the  life  that  seemed  to 
recede  and  grow  more  and  more  unreal  the  nearer  it  came. 


be  e: 


THE  GATHERING  STORM. 


79 


Its  novelty  and  brightness  blinded  her  no  more— distance 
had  lent  enchantment  to  the  view— to-night  she  only  knew 
she  was  about  to  marry  a  man  she  did  not  love. 

The  past  arose  before  her.  Laurence  Thorndyke's  smil- 
ing, cynical,  handsome  face  floated  in  the  haze  like  a  vision, 
her  girl's  fancy  returned  .  th  tenfold  sweetness  and 
power.  If  he  were  only  to  be  the  bridegroom  on  Thursday 
next !  A  passionate  longing  to  see  him  once  more,  to  hear 
his  voice,  filled  her  whole  soul  with  unutterable  desire. 
In  the  moonlight  she  stretched  out  her  arms  involunta- 
rily—in the  silence  she  spoke,  a  heart-sob  in  every  word  : 

"  Laurence  1 "  she  cried,  "  come  back ! " 

The  icacifcis  leaves  fluttered  around  her,  the  wind  touch- 
ed her  face  and  swept  by.     She  leaned  wearily  against 

the  gate. 

"Laurence!"  she  whispered,  "Laurence!  Laurence! 
If  I  could  only  see  you  once  more— only  once— if  I  knew 
you  had  not  quite  forgotten  me— if  I  could  only  bid  you 
good-by  before  we  part  forever,  I  think  everything  would 
be  easy  after  that." 

Had  the  thought  evoked  his  phantom  ? 

Who  was  that  coming  along  the  silent  road  ?  A  tall, 
slender  figure,  wearing  a  loose,  light  overcoat,  strangely, 
bewilderingly  familiar.  That  negligent,  graceful  walk, 
that  uplifted  carriage  of  the  head— surely,  surely  she 
knew  both.  She  leaned  forward  in  breathless  expecta- 
tion—her lips  apart,  her  eyes  alight.  Nearer  and  nearer 
he  came,  and  the  face  she  had  longed  to  see,  had  prayeil 
to  see,  looked  down  upon  her  once  more  with  the  old 
familiar  smile. 

Laurence  Thorndyke ! 

She  leaned  against  the  gate  still  in  breathless  hush, 


Ift 


80 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


pale,  terrified.  She  could  not  speak,  so  intense  was  her 
surprise,  and  the  voice  for  whose  sound  she  had  hungered 
and  thirsted  with  her  whole  foolish,  romantic  heart  sound- 
ed in  the  silence  : 

"  Norine  1 " 

She  made  no  answer ;  in  her  utter  astonishment  and 
swift  joy  she  could  only  stand  and  gaze,  speechless. 

"  Norine,  I  have  come  back  again.  Have  you  no  word 
of  welcome  for  your  old  friend  ? " 

Still  she  did  not  speak— still  she  stood  looking  as  though 
she  never  could  look  enough— only  trembling  a  little  now. 

"  I  have  startled  you,"  he  said  very  gently,  "  coming  so 
unexpectedly  upon  you  like  a  ghost  in  the  moonlight. 
But  I  am  no  spirit,  Norine— shake  hands." 

He  leaned  across  the  closed  gate,  and  took  both  her 
hands  in  his  warm,  cordial  clasp.  They  were  like  ice. 
Her  eyes  were  fixed  almost  wildly  upon  his  face,  her  lips 
were  trembling  like  the  lips  of  a  child  about  to  cry. 

"  Won't  you  speak  then,  Norine  ?  Have  I  startled  you 
so  much  as  that  ?  I  did  not  expect  to  see  you  or  any  one 
at  this  hour,  but  I  had  to  come.  Do  you  hear,  Norry  ? 
I  had  to  come.  And  now  that  we  have  met,  Norine, 
won't  you  say  you  are  glad  to  see  me  again  ? " 

She  drew  away  her  hands  suddenly — covered  her  face 
and  broke  into  a  passion  of  tears.  Perhaps  she  had  grown 
hysterical,  her  heart  had  been  full  before  he  came,  and 
it  needed  only  this  shock  to  brim  over.  He  opened  the 
gate  abruptly  and  came  to  her  side. 

"Speak  to  me,  Norine!  My  own — my  dearest,  don't 
cry  so.     Look  up,  and  say  you  are  not  sorry  I  have  come !  " 

She  looked  up  at  him,  forgetful  of  Richard  Gilbert  and 
her  wedding  day,  forgetful  of  loyalty  and  truth. 


THE  GATHERING  STORM. 


"  I  thought  you  had  forgotten  me,"  she  said.  "  I  thought 
I  would  never  see  you  again.  And  oh,  I  have  been  so 
miserable — so  miserable  1 " 

"  And  yet  you  are  about  to  be  married,  Norine  !  "  At 
that  reproachful  cry  she  suddenly  remembered  the  New 
York  lawyer,  and  all  the  duties  of  her  life.  She  drew  her 
hands  away  resolutely  in  spite  of  his  resistance  and  stood 
free — trembling  and  white. 

"  You  are  going  to  be  married  to  Richard  Gilbert, 
Norine  ? " 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  falteringly  ;  "  and  you — you  are  going 
to  be  married,  too  ?  " 

"I?"  in  astonishment]  "I  married!  Who  can  have 
told  you  that  ? " 

"  Mr.  Gilbert." 

"  Then  it  is  the  first  time  I  have  ever  known  him — law- 
yer though  he  be — to  tell  a  falsehood.  No,  Norine,  I  am 
not  going  to  be  married." 

She  caught  her  breath  in  the  shock,  the  joy  of  the  words. 

'■'■Not  going  to  be  married!  Not  going — Oh,  Mr. 
Thorndyke,  don't  deceive  me — don't !  " 

"  I  am  not  deceiving  you  Norine — why  should  I  ?  There 
is  but  one  whom  I  love  ;  if  she  w'll  be  my  wife  I  will  mar- 
ry— not  unless.  Can  you  not  guess  who  it  is,  Norine  ?  Can 
you  not  guess  what  I  have  come  from  New  York  to  say 
before  it  is  too  late  ?  I  only  heard  of  your  projected  mar- 
riage last  week — heard  it  then  by  merest  accident.  Ah, 
Norine  !  if  you  knew  what  a  shock  that  announcement 
was.  Ever  since  I  left  here  I  have  been  trying  to  school 
myself  to  forget  you,  but  in  vain.  I  never  knew  how  utter- 
ly in  vain  until  I  heard  you  were  the  promised  wife  of 
Richard  Gilbert,     I  could  stay  away  no  longer — I  felt  I 


* 


'.'it' 


82 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


must  tell  you  or  die.  It  may  seem  like  presumption,  like 
madness,  my  coming  at  the  eleventh  hour,  and  you  the 
promised  bride  of  another  man,  but  I  had  to  come.  Even 
if  you  refused  me  with  scorn,  I  felt  I  must  come  and  hear 
my  doom  from  your  lips.  They  have  urged  me  to  marry 
another,  an  heiress  she  is,  and  a  ward  of  my  uncle's— he 
even  threatens  to  disinherit  me  if  I  do  not.  But  I  will  be 
disinherited,  I  will  brave  poverty  and  face  the  future  boldly 
so  that  the  girl  I  love  is  by  my  side.  Helen  is  beautiful,  and 
will  not  say  no,  they  tell  me,  if  I  ask,  but  what  is  that  lo  me 
since  I  love  only  you.  Norine,  tell  me  I  have  not  come 
too  late.  You  don't,  you  can't  care  for  this  elderly  law- 
yer, old  enough  to  be  your  father.  Norine,  speak  and  tell 
me  you  care  only  for  me." 

"  Only  for  you  --  only  for  you  1 "  she  cried,  "  O,  Lau- 
rence, I  love  you  with  all  my  heart !  " 

There  was  a  sound  as  she  said  it,  the  house  door  open- 
ing. In  the  moonlight  Aunt  Hetty's  spare,  small  figure 
appeared  in  the  doorway,  in  the  silence  her  pleasant  voice 
called : 

"  Norine  1  Norine  I  come  in  out  of  the  dew  dear 
child." 

Some  giant  hemlocks  grew  near  the  gate — Laurence 
Thorndyke  drew  her  with  him  into  their  black  shadow,  and 
stood  perfectly  still.  Brilliant  as  the  moonlight  was.  Aunt 
Hetty  might  brush  against  them  and  not  see  them  in  the 
leafy  gloom. 

"  I  must  go,"  whispered  Norine  ;  "  she  will  be  here  in  a 
moment  in  search  of  me.     Laurence,  let  me  go." 

"  But  first — I  must  see  you  again.  No  one  knows  I  am 
here,  no  one  must  know.     When  does  Gilbert  arrive  ? " 

"  To-morrow,"  she  answered,  with  a  sudden  shiver. 


"1 
Min( 
the{ 

but' 

<t ' 

dish 
<i 

Hal 


clea 
out 

« 

wife 
sam 

« 

out 

II 

am 

(I 


iti 


to 

ey( 

to 

wa 


THE  GA  THERING  STORM. 

"  My  darling,  don't  fear— you  are  mine  now,  mine  only. 
Mine  you  shall  remain."  His  eyes  glittered  strangely  in 
the  gloom  as  he  said  it.  "We  cannot  meet  to-morrow  ; 
but  we  must  meet  to-morrow  night." 

"No,"    she    faltered,    "no— no.    It  would  be  wrong, 
dishonorable.     And  I  dare  not,  we  would  be  discovered." 
"  Not  if  you  do  as  I  direct.  What  time  do  you  all  retire? 
Half-past  ten?" 

"  Mostly." 

"Then  at  eleven,  or  half-past,  the  coast  is  sure  to  be 
clear.  At  eleven  to-morrow  night  I  will  be  here  just  with- 
out the  gate,  and  you  must  steal  out  and  meet  me." 

"  Laurence  1 " 

"  You  must— you  will,  if  you  love  me.  Are  you  not  my 
wife,  or  going  to  be  in  a  few  days,  which  amounts  to  the 
same  thing.    Will  Gilbert  stop  here  ? " 

"  I  don't  know.     Yes,  I  suppose  so." 

"  Well,  even  if  he  does  it  will  not  matter.  You  can  steal 
out  unheard  and  unobserved,  can  you  not?" 

«  Yes— no.    I  don't  know.    Laurence  1  Laurence  1  I 

am  afraid."  , 

"  Of  what  ?  Of  whom  ?  not  of  me,  Nonne  ? 
She  shivered  a  little,  and  shrank  from  his  side. 
"  It  seems  so  stra  i^e,  so  bold,  so  wrong.     I  ought  not, 

it  is  wicked— I  don't  know  what  to  do." 

"  Then  you  don't  care  for  me  at  all,  Norine  ? " 

He  knew  how  to  move  her.  The  reproachful  words  went 

to  her  heart.     Care  for  him  1     He  doubted  that. 

"  You  will  come,"  he  said,  that  exultant  gleam  in  his 

eyes  again,  "my  loyal  little  girl  1  I  have  a  thousand  things 

to  say  to  you,  and  we  can  talk  uninterruptedly  then.  When 

was  your  wedding  to  be  ? 


r 


iiiS 


|i 


i  i 


1,1' 


I 


w 


84 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


"  Next  Thursday." 

"  And  this  is  Sunday  night.  To-morrow  afternoon  Gil- 
bert will  be  here.  You  see  how  little  time  we  have  to 
sjjare,  Norine.  You  must  meet  me,  for  on  Thursday  you 
shall  be  my  wife — not  his  I  " 

"  Norry  I  Norry  !  "  more  loudly  this  time,  called  the 
voice  of  Aunt  Hetty,  still  in  the  doorway,  "  where  on 
earth  is  the  child  ?  " 

"  Let  me  go — let  me  go  I  "  Norine  cried  in  terror,  "  she 
will  be  here  directly." 

"  You  will  meet  me  to-morrow  night,  promise  first?" 

"  Yes — yes — ^yes  I   Only  let  me  go." 

He  obeyed.  Retreating  into  the  shadow  of  the 
trees,  he  watched  her  glide  out  in  the  moonlit  path,  and 
up  to  the  gate.  He  heard  her  ascend  the  steps,  and  then 
Aunt  Hetty's  voice  came  to  him  again. 

"  Goodness  gracious,  child  1  where  have  you  been  ?  Do 
you  want  to  get  your  death,  out  in  your  bare  head  and  the 
dew  falling  like  rain  ? " 

He  could  not  catch  Norine's  faint  reply.  A  second 
more,  and  again  Miss  Hester  Kent  was  shrilly  to  be  heard. 

"  Land  of  hope !  whatever  ails  you.  Norry  ?  You  are. 
whiter  than  the  dead.  Oh,  I  know  how  it  will  be  after  to- 
night— you'll  be  laid  up  for  a  week." 

He  heard  the  house  door  close.  Then  he  was  alone 
with  the  rustling  trees,  and  the  bright,  countless  stars.  As 
he  stepped  out  into  the  crystal  radiance,  his  face  shone 
with  exultant  delight — alas  I  for  Norine  I  not  with  happy 
love. 

"  I  knew  it !  "  he  thought  to  himself  in  his  triumph  ;  "  I 
knew  I  could  take  her  from  him  at  the  very  church  door. 
Now,  Richard  Gilbert  !  whose  turn  is  it  at  last^-who  holds 


THE  GATHERING  STORM. 


the  winning  trump  in  the  game  ?  You  have  baffled,  and 
foiled,  and  watched  me  many  a  time,  notably  in  the  case 
of  Lucy  West — when  it  came  to  old  Darcy's  ears  through 
you,  and  he  was  within  a  hair's  breadth  of  disinheriting  me. 
Every  dog  has  his  day.  Yours  is  over — mine  has  come. 
I'he  wheel  has  revolved,  and  Laurence  Thorndyke,  gam- 
bler, trickster,  libertine,  as  you  paint  him,  is  at  the  top. 
You  have  not  spared  me  in  the  past,  my  good  Gilbert, 
look  to  yourself  now,  for  by  all  the  gods  I'll  not  spare 
you ! " 

While  Mr  Thorndyke,  with  his  hat  pulled  low  over  his 
brows,  walked  home  to  the  obscure  hotel  at  which  he 
chose  to  stop,  Norine  was  up  in  her  room  alone  with  her 
tumultuous  heart.  She  had  complained  of  a  headache 
and  gone  at  once.  The  plea  was  not  altogether  false — 
her  brain  was  whirling,  her  heart  throbbing  in  a  wild  tu- 
mult, half  terror,  half  delight.  He  had  come  back  to  her, 
he  loved  her,  she  was  going  to  be  his  wife !  For  over 
an  hour  she  sat,  hiding  even  in  the  dusk  her  happy 
face  in  her  hands,  with  only  this  one  thought  pulsing 
through  all  her  being — she  was  to  be  his  wife  ! 

By  and  by  she  grew  calm  and  able  to  think.  No  thought 
of  going  to  bed,  or  doing  anything  so  commonplace  as 
sleeping  occurred  to  her.  She  wrapped  herself  in  a  shawl, 
seated  herself  by  the  window,  and  so  for  hours  and  hours  sat 
motionless. 

After  all  was  love  worth  what  she  was  about  to  give 
up  for  it — home,  friends,  a  good  man's  trust,  her  soul's 
truth  and  honor?  Was  Laurence  Thorndyke  worth  more 
to  her  than  all  the  world  beside,  more  than  the  peace  of 
her  own  conscience.  Richard  Gilbert  loved  her,  honored 
her,  trusted  her,  she  had  taken  his  gifts,  she  had  pledged 


,    .„ .  _>...'iiti^i-iA»«i_l'-*?'' 


86 


NORWE'S  REVENGE. 


herself  to  be  his  wife.  This  very  day,  dawning  yonder 
over  the  hills  of  Maine,  would  see  him  here  to  claim 
her  as  his  own  forever.  Was  one  sight  of  Laurence 
Thorndyke's  face,  one  touch  of  his  hand,  one  seductive 
tone  of  his  voice  sufficient  to  make  her  fling  honor  and 
truth  to  the  winds,  desert  her  best,  her  only  friends,  break 
her  plighted  husband's  heart,  and  make  her  memory  a 
shame  and  pain  to  them  all  forever  ?  Oli,  what  a  wretch 
she  was,  what  cruel,  selfish  passion  this  love  she  felt  must 
be  I 

The  sun  rose  up  between  the  fleecy  clouds,  filling  the 
world  with  jubilant  brightness,  tiie  sweet  scents  of  sun- 
rise in  the  country  perfumed  the  warm  air.  Norine  threw 
up  her  window  and  leaned  out,  worn  and  fevered  with 
her  night's  vigil.  That  meeting  under  the  trees  seemed  a 
long  way  off  now,  it  was  as  if  she  had  lived  years  in  a  few 
brief  hours.  Presently  there  was  a  rap  at  the  door,  and 
Aunt  Hetty's  voice  outside  spoke. 

"  Are  you  up,  Norry  ?  is  your  headache  better,  dear  ? " 
"  Much  better,  aunty — I'll  be  down  directly." 
"  Breakfast  will  be  ready  in  ten  minutes,"  said  aunty, 
and  Norine  got  wearily  up,  and  bathed  her  face,  brush- 
ed out  her  tangled  curls,  shrinking  guiltily  from  her  own 
pallid  face  in  the  glass. 

"  How  wretchedly  haggard  I  look,"  she  thought,  drear- 
ily ;  "  surely  every  one  who  looks  at  me  will  read  my 
guilt  in  my  face." 

She  went  down  stairs.  Aunt  Hetty  nearly  dropped 
the  sweet,  smelling  plate  of  hot  muffins  at  sight  of  her. 

"  You're  whiter  than  a  ghost,  child  I  "  she  cried.  "  You 
told  me  you  were  better." 

"I  am  better,  aunty.     Oh,  pray  don't  mind  my  looks. 


^ 


THE  GA  THERING  STORM. 


87 


La3t  night's  headache  has  made  me  pale — I  will  be  as  well 
as  ever  after  breakfast." 

But  breakfast  was  only  a  pretence  as  far  she  was  con- 
cerned, and  the  day  wore  on  and  the  fair,  young  face  kept 
its  pallid,  startled  look.  She  could  do  nothing,  neither 
read  or  sew,  she  wandered  about  the  house  like  a  restless 
spirit,  only  shrinking  from  that  Bluebeard's  chamber, 
where  all  the  wedding  finery  was  spread.  How  was 
she  to  meet  Mr.  Gilbert,  and  the  fleeting  hours  were 
hurrying  after  one  another,  as  hours  never  had  hurried 
before. 

The  afternoon  sun  dropped  low,  the  noises  in  the  fields 
grew  more  and  more  subdued,  the  cool  evening  wind 
swept  up  from  the  distant  sea.  Norine  sat  in  the  wicker 
chair  in  the  garden  under  the  old  apple-tree  and  waited — 
waited  as  a  doomed  prisoner  might  the  coming  of  the  ex- 
ecutioner. A  book  lay  idle  on  her  lap,  she  could  not 
read,  she  sat  there  waiting — waiting^waiting,  and  school- 
ing herself  for  the  ordeal. 

Presently,  far  off  on  the  white  road,  rose  up  a  cloud  of 
dust,  there  came  the  rolling  of  wheels,  she  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  carriage.  She  clasped  her  hands  together 
and  strove  to  steady  herself.  At  last  he  was  here. 
Out  of  the  dusty  cloud  came  a  buggy,  whirling  rapidly  up 
to  the  gate — out  of  the  buggy  came  Richard  Gilbert,  his 
eager  face  turned  towards  her.  His  quick  eye  had 
espied  her ;  she  rose  up  to  meet  him,  calm  in  the  very 
depth  of  desperatioti.  Mr.  Gilbert  sprang  out  and  caught 
both  her  hands  in  his. 

"  My  dear,  dear  girl !  My  own  Norine !  how  glad  I  am 
to  be  with  you  once  more !  But  how  pale  you  look.  Have 
you  been  ill  ? " 


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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

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88 


NORINES    REVENGE. 


"  Oh,  no — that  is — only  my  old  friend,  headache.  Here 
comes  Aunty  Hetty  and  Uncle  Reuben  to  welcome  you." 

She  drew  back,  thankful  for  the  diversion,  feeling-hot 
and  cold  by  turns,  and  not  daring  to  meet  his  eye.  Their 
laughter,  their  gay  greetings  were  only  a  confused  hum  in 
her  ears,  she  was  looking  at  the  clump  of  hemlocks,  and 
feeling — oh,  such  a  false,  treaclierous  guilty  creature. 

"  How  dazed  you  look,  little  girl !  "  her  happy  lover  said 
laughing ;  "  am  I  such  an  ogre,  then,  in  your  sight .'  " 

He  drew  her  hand  beneath  his  arm,  with  the  air  of  one 
who  assumes  a  right,  and  led  her  to  the  house.  They 
were  alone  together  in  the  parlor,  and  she  was  trying  to 
call  her  wandering  mind  to  order,  and  listen  to  him  and 
answer  his  questions.  She  could  see  with  terror  that  he 
was  watching  her  already  with  grave,  troubled  eyes.  What 
was  it,  this  pale,  still  change  in  her  ?  Dread  of  her  ap- 
proaching marriage,  maiden  timidity,  or  worst  of  all — was 
the  thought  of  another  man  haunting  her  still  ? 

Tea  time  came  and  was  a  relief ;  after  tea,  Mr.  Gil- 
bert proposed  a  walk.  Norine  took  her  hat  passively,  and 
went  out  with  him  into  the  hushed  and  placid  twilight. 
The  pale  primrose  light  was  fading  out  of  the  western  sky, 
and  a  rising  wind  was  tossing  the  arms  of  the  hemlocks 
•where  she  stood  with  another  lover  last  night. 

It  was  a  very  silent  walk.  They  strolled  along  the 
lonesome  road,  with  the  primrose  light  growing  grayer 
and  grayer  through  the  velvety  meadows,  where  the  quiet 
cows  grazed.  Something  of  the  dark  shadows  deepening 
around  them  seemed  to  steal  into  the  man's  heart,  and 
dull  it  with  nameless  dread,  but  there  was  no  voice  in 
the  rising  wind,  in  the  whispering  trees,  in  the  creeping 
gloom,  to  tell  him  of  what  was  so  near. 


I  1 


THE  GATHERING  STORM. 


89 


A  very  silent  walk — the  last  they  would  ever  take. 
The  little  talking  clone,  Mr.  Gilbert  did  himself.  He  told 
her  that  all  his  preparations  for  his  bride,  all  his  arrange- 
ments lor  her  comfort  were  made.  Their  home  in  New 
York's  stateliest  avenue  was  ready  and  waiting — their  wed- 
ing  tour  would  be  to  Montreal  and  Niagara,  unless  Norine 
had  some  other  choice.  But  she  would  be  glad  to  see 
once  more  the  quaint,  gray,  dear  old  Canadian  town — 
would  she  not  ? 

"  Yes,  she  would  ever  be  glad  to  see  Montreal.  No,  she 
had  no  other  choice."  She  shivered  as  she  said  it, 
looking  far  off  with  blank  eyes  that  dare  not  meet  his. 
"  Niagara  would  do  very  well,  all  places  were  alike  to  her. 
It  was  growing  cold  and  dark," — abruptly  this — "  suppose 
they  went  home." 

Something  in  her  tone  and  manner,  in  her  want  of  in- 
terest and  enthusiasm,  hurt  him.  More  silently  than  they 
had  come  they  recrossed  the  darkening  fields.  The  moon 
was  rising  as  they  drew  near  the  house,  forcing  its  way 
up  through  dark  and  jagged  clouds.  She  paused  suddenly 
for  a  moment,  with  her  pale  face  turned  towards  it.  Mr, 
Gilbert  paused,  too,  looking  at  the  lowering  sky. 

"  Listen  to  the  wind,"  he  said.  "  We  will  have  a  change 
to-morrow." 

"  A  change  I "  she  said,  in  a  hushed  sort  of  voice.  "  Yes, 
the  storm  is  yerj'  near." 

"  And  you  are  shivering  in  this  raw  night  wind.  You 
are  white  and  cold  as  a  spirit,  my  darling.  Come  let  us 
go  in." 

His  baggage  had  arrived — a  trunk  and  valise  stood  in 
the  hall  as  they  entered.  The  sister  and  brothers  sat  in 
holiday  attire  in  the  keeping  room,  but  very  grave  and 


I 

i 


r 


90 


NOR/NE'S  REVENGE. 


quiet.     The  shadow  that  had  fallen  on  Richard  Gilbert  in 
the  twilight  fields  seemed  to  have  fallen  here,  too, 

Norine  sat  at  the  piano,  her  face  turned  away  from  the 
light,  and  played  the  melodies  he  asked  for.  From 
these  she  drifted  gradually  into  music  more  in  accordance 
with  her  mood,  playing  in  a  mournful,  minor  key,  until 
Mr,  Gilbert  could  endure  the  saddening  sweetness  no 
longer. 

"  Your  music  is  very  melancholy,  my  dear,"  he  said 
quietly,     "  Will  you  not  sing  us  something  instead," 

"  Not  to-night,  I  think.  I  find  my  headache  has  not 
altogether  departed.  If  you  will  kinc'.Iy  excuse  me,  I  will 
retire." 

She  got  up  as  she  spoke,  lit  a  lamp,  and  with  a  brief 
goodnight,  was  gone. 

It  was  not  yet  ten  o'clock,  but  there  was  little  induce- 
ment to  linger  now.  Mr.  Gilbert  owned  to  being  rather 
fatigued,  took  his  light,  and  departed.  Before  half-past 
ten  all  were  in  their  rooms,  the  doors  and  windows  secured 
for  the  night.    By  eleven  all  were  asleep — all  save  one. 

Norine  sat  at  her  window,  her  light  shaded,  her  watch 
(one  of  Richard  Gilbert's  presents  to  his  bride  elect)  open 
before  her,  gazing  out  into  the  gusty  darkness,  and  wait- 
ing. Her  hands  were  tightly  clasped  together,  silent, 
tearless  sobs  shook  her  at  times  as  remorse  swept  through, 
her  soul,  and  yet  not  for  one  minute  did  she  think  of  with- 
drawing f  roin  her  tryst.  But  she  would  not  fly  with  Laurence 
Thomdyk  — no,  no !  Every  best  impulse  within  her  cried 
out  she  would  not,  she  could  not.  She  was  a  wretch  for 
even  thinking  of  it — a  wretch  for  going  to  this  meeting, 
but  she  would  only  go  to  say  farewell  forever.  She  loved 
him,  but  she  belonged  to  another  man  j  it  would  be  better 


THE  GATHERING  STORM. 


91 


to  die  than  to  betray  him.     She  would  bid  Laurence 
Thorndyke  go  to-night,  and  never  see  him  more. 

The  threatening  storm  seemed  drawing  very  near.  The 
moon  was  half  obscured  in  dense  clouds  ;  the  wind  tore 
around  the  gables ;  the  trees  tossed  their  long,  green 
arms  wildly  aloft.  Within  the  house  profoundest  silence 
reigned. 

Half-past  eleven  I  the  hour  of  tryst ;  she  seemed  to  count 
the  moments  by  the  dull  beating  of  her  heart.  She  rose 
up,  extinguished  her  lamp,  put  on  a  waterproof,  drawing 
the  hood  over  her  head,  took  her  slippers  in  her  hand, 
and  opened  the  door.  She  paused  and  listened,  half  choked 
by  the  loud  throbbing  of  her  heart,  by  guilty,  nameless 
dread.  All  was  still — no  sound  but  the  surging  of  the 
trees  without ;  no  glimmer  of  light  from  any  room.  She 
stole  on  tiptoe  along  the  passage,  down  the  stairs,  and 
into  the  lower  hall.  Noiselessly  she  unlocked  the  door, 
opened  it,  and  was  out  in  the  windy  dark,  under  the  gloom 
of  the  trees.  One  second's  pause,  her  breath  coming  in 
frightened  gasps,  then  she  was  flitting  away  in  the  chill  night 
wind  to  meet  her  lover.  She  reached  the  gate,  leaned 
over  it  eagerly,  straining  her  eyes  through  the  gloom. 

"  Laurence  1 "  she  said,  in  a  tremulous  whisper.     "  Lau- 
rence, I  have  come." 

"  My  own  brave  little  girl  I " 

A  tall  figure  stepped  forward  from  beneath  a  tree,  two 
warm  hands  clasped  hers. 

"  Norry,  you're  a  trump,  by  Jove  !  Come  out  at  once. 
All  is  ready.    You  must  fly  with  me  to-night," 

But  she  shrank  back — shocked,  terrified,  yet  Jonging 
with  all  her  soul  to  obey. 

"  No,  no  1 "  she  cried.    "  I  can  never  go—never  I  never  I 


■?r 


jffs- 


93 


NORINerS  REVENGE. 


never  1  O  Lawrence  I  I  have  come  here  to  bid  you  good- 
by  forever  1 " 

His  answer  was  to  laugh  aloud.  His  face  was  flushed 
his  blue  eyes  gleaming — Mr.  Laurence  Thorndyke,  bold 
enough  at  all  times,  had  primed  himself  with  brandy  for 
to-night's  work,  until  he  was  ready  to  face  and  defy  devils 
ad  men. 

"  Good-by  forever  I "  he  repeated.  "  Yes,  that's  so  like- 
ly, my  darling.  Come  out  here,  Norry — come  out.  I've 
no  notion  of  talking  with  a  five-barred  gate  between  us. 
So  old  Gilbert  came  down  to  his  wedding  this  afternoon 
didn't  he  ?  By  Jubiter !  what  a  row  there  will  be  to-mor- 
row, when  the  cage  is  opened,  and  the  bird  found  flown. 

He  laughed  recklessly  aloud,  as  he  opened  the  gate 
and  drew  her  out. 

"  Not  if  I  know  it,  Norry.  No  dry-as-dust,  grim,  solemn 
owl  of  a  lawyer  for  my  little  Canadian  rosebud,  old  as  the 
everlasting  hills,  and  priggish  as  the  devil.  No,  no !  we'll 
change  all  that.  Before  morning  dawns  you  and  I  will  be 
safely  in  Boston,  and  before  another  night  falls  you'll  be 
my  blessed  little  wife — the  loveliest  bride  from  Maine  to 
Florida,  and  I  the  most  blissful  of  bridegrooms.  All  is 
ready — here  are  my  horse  and  buggy — the  sloop  sails 
in  an  hour,  and  then — let  them  catch  us  who  can  I " 

Either  the  excitement  of  his  triumph,  or  the  French 
brandy,  had  set  Mr.  Laurence  Thorndyke  half  wild.  He 
drew  her  with  him,  heedless  of  her  struggles,  her  passionate 
protest. 

"  Can't  go  ?  Oh,  that's  all  bosh,  my  darling !  you've  got 
to  come.  I  love  you,  and  you  love  me— (sounds  like  a 
child's  valentine,  don't  it  ?) — and  you  don't  care  that 
for  old  Dick  Gilbert.  You  won't  go  ?  If  you  don't  I'll  shoot 


myself 
to  shoo 
I  don't 
moon's 
upon  r 
angel, 
that, 
me  for 
get  in, 

He! 

Stun 
only  Is 
horse  \ 
forwan 
scream 

"O 

A  w 
like  th 
mingle 


THE  GA  THERING  STORM. 

myself  before  morning — I  swear  I  will !  You  don't  want  me 
to  shoot  myself,  do  you  ?  I  can't  live  without  you,  Norry,  and 
I  don't  mean  to  try.  After  we're  married,  and  the  honey- 
moon's over,  I'll  fetch  you  back  to  the  old  folks  if  you  like, 
upon  my  sacred  honor  I  will.  Not  a  word  now,  my  little 
angel,  I  won't  listen.  Of  course  you've  scruples,  and  all 
that.  I  think  the  more  of  you  for  them,  but  you'll  thank, 
me  for  not  listening  one  day.  Here's  the  carriage — ^get  in, 
get  in,  get  in  !  " 

He  fairly  lifted  her  in  as  he  spoke. 

Stunned,  terrified,  bewildered,  she  struggled  in  vain.  He 
only  laughed  aloud,  caught  up  the  reins,  and  struck  the 
horse  with  the  whip.  The  horse,  a  spirited  one,  darted 
forward  like  a  flash ;  there  was  a  girl's  faint,  frightened 
scream. 

"  O  Laurence !  let  me  go  I  " 

A  wild  laugh  drowned  it-^they  flew  oyer  the  ground 
like  the  wind.  Norine  was  gone  I  His  exultant  singing 
mingled  with  the  crash  of  the  wheels  as  they  disappeared. 

"  She  is  won  I  they  are  gone  over  bush,  brake  and  scsir ; 
They'll  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow,  quoth  young  Lochinvar." 


r 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


fled! 


R.  GILBERT  wr  jt  to  his  room,  went  to  his  bed, 
but  he  did  not  go  to  sleep.  He  lay  awake  so 
long,  tossing  restlessly,  that,  at  last,  in  disgust, 
he  got  up  dressed  himself  partly,  and  sat  down 
in  the  darkness  by  his  open  chamber  window ;  to  have  it 
out. 

What  was  the  matter  with  Norine?  Headache;  she 
had  said — ^but  to  eyes  sharpened  by  deep,  true,  love,  it 
looked  much  more  like  heartache.  The  averted  eyes, 
the  faltering  voice,  the  pallid  cheeks,  the  shrinking  form, 
betokened  something  deeper  than  headache.  Was  she 
at  the  eleventh  hour  repenting  her  marriage  ?  Was  she 
still  in  love  with  Laurence  Thorndyke  ?  Was  she  pin- 
ing for  the  freedom  she  had  resigned  ?  Was  there  no 
spark  of  affection  for  him  in  hsr  girl's  heart  after  all  ? 
"  I  was  mad  and  presumptuous  to  dream  of  it,"  he 
thought.  "  I  am  thirty-six — she  is  seventeen.  I  am  not 
handsome,  nor  brilliant,  nor  attractive  to  a  girl's  fancy 
in  any  way — she  is  all.  Yes,  she  is  pining  for  him,  and 
repenting  of  her  hastily-plighted  troth.  Well,  then,  she 
shall  have  it  back.  If  I  loved  her  tenfold  more  than  I  do, 
and  Heaven  knows  to  love  her  any  better  than  I  do 
mortal  man  cannot,  still  I  would  resign  her.     No  woman 


FLED  I 


95 


shall  ever  come  to  me  as  wife  with  her  heart  in  the 
keeping  of  another  man.  Better  a  thousand  times  to  part 
now  than  to  part  after  marriage.  I  have  seen  quite  too 
much,  in  my  professional  capacity  of  marrying  in  haste 
and  repenting  at  leisure,  to  try  it  myself.  I  will  speak  to 
her  to-morrow ;  she  shall  tell  me  the  truth  fearlessly  and 
frankly  while  it  is  not  yet  too  late,  and  if  it  be  as  I  dread, 
why,  then,  I  can  do  as  better  men  have  done— bear  my 
pain  and  go  my  way.  Poor,  pretty  little  Norry  I  with  her 
drooping  face  and  pathetic,  wistful  eyes— she  longs  to  tell 
me,  I  know,  and  is  afraid.  It  is  a  very  tender  heart,  a 
very  romantic  little  heart,  and  who  is  to  blame  her  if  it 
turns  to  him,  young  and  handsome  as  she  is  herself,  in- 
stead of  to  the  grave,  dull,  middle-aged  lawyer.  And  yet, 
it  will  be  very  hard  to  say  good-by." 

He  broke  down  for  a  moment,  alone  as  he  was.  A 
great  flood  of  recollection  came  over  him— the  thought  of 
parting— now— was  bitter  indeed.  A  vision  rose  before 
him— Norine  as  he  had  seen  her  first,  standing  shyly  down- 
cast in  the  train,  her  dark,  childlike  eyes  glancing  im- 
ploringly around,  the  sensitive  color  coming  and  going  in 
her  innocent  face.  She  arose  before  him  again  as  he  had 
seen  her  later,  flushed  and  downcast,  sweet  and  smiling, 
bending  over  Laurence  Thorndyke,  with  "  Love's  young 
dream  "  written  in  every  line  of  her  happy  face.  Again 
as  he  had  seen  her  that  day  when  he  spoke,  pale,  startled, 
troubled,  afraid  to  accept,  afraid  to  refuse,  and  faltering 
out  the  words  that  made  him  so  idiotically  happy,  with 
her  little,  white,  handsome  face,  keeping  its  startled 
pallor. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  yes,  yes,  I  see  it  all.  She  said  'yes,' 
because  it  is  not  in  her  yielding,  gentle,  child's  heart  to 


0 


NOR/NE'S  REVENGE. 


.'•       \ 


say  no.  And  now  she  is  repenting  when  she  thinks  it  too 
late.  But  it  is  not  too  late  ;  to-morrow  I  will  speak  and 
she  will  answer,  and  if  there  be  one  lingering  doubt  in  her 
mind,  we  will  shake  hands  and  part.  My  little  love  1  I 
wish  for  your  sake  Laurence  Thorndyke  were  worthy  of 
you,  and  might  return  ;  but  to  meet  him  again  is  the 
worst  fate  that  can  befall  you,  and  in  three  months  poor 
Helen  Holmes  will  be  his  bride." 

Hark !  was  that  a  sound  ?  He  broke  off  his  reverie  to 
listen.  No,  all  was  still  again — only  the  surging  of  the 
wind  in  the  maples. 

"It  certainly  sounded  like  the  opening  of  a  door  below," 
he  thought ;  "a  rat  perhaps — all  are  in  bed." 

He  was  looking  blankly  out  into  the  windy  darkness. 
This  time  to-morrow  night  his  fate  would  be  decided. 
Would  he  still  be  in  this  room,  waiting  for  Thursday 
morning  to  dawn  and  give  him  Norine,  or — 

He  broke  oE  abruptly  again.  Was  that  a  figure  moving 
down  in  the  gloom  to  the  gate  ?  Surely  not,  and  yet  some- 
thing moved.  A  second  more,  and  it  had  vanished.  Was 
this  fancy,  too  ?  He  waited,  he  listened.  Clearly  through 
the  dusk,  borne  on  the  wind,  there  came  to  him  the  faint, 
far-off  sound  of  a  laugh. 

"  Who  can  it  be  ?"  he  thought,  puzzled.  "  No  fancy  this 
time.  I  certainly  heard  a  laugh.  Rather  an  odd  hour  and 
lonely  spot  for  mirth." 

He  listened  once  more,  and  once  more,  fainter  and  farther 
off,  came  on  the  wind  that  laugh.  Did  he  dream,  or  did  a 
cry  mingle  with  it?  The  next  instant  he  started  to  his  feet 
as  the  loud,  rapid  rush  of  carriage  wheels  sounded  through 
the  deep  silence  of  the  night.  What  did  it  mean  j 
Had  some   one  stealthily    left   the  house  and   driven 


FLED! 


97 


away  ?  He  rose,  drew  on  his  coat,  and  without  his  boots, 
quitted  his  room,  and  descended  the  stairs. 
The  house  door  stood  ajar— some  one  had  left  them  and 

driven  away. 

He  walked  to  the  gate.  Nothing  was  to  be  seen,  noth- 
ing to  be  heard.  The  gloomy  night  sky,  the  tossing  trees, 
the  soughing  wind,  nothing  else  far  or  near. 

"  It  may  have  been  Reuben  or  Joe  Kent,"  he  thought. 
"  and  yet  at  this  time  of  night  and  in  secret !  And  there 
was  a  cry  for  help,  or  what  certainly  sounded  like  one. 
No  need  to  puzzle  over  it,  however— to  morrow  will  tell. 
A  New  England  farm  house  is  about  the  last  place  on  earth 
to  look  for  mysteries." 

Mr.  Gilbert  went  to  bed  again,  and,  somewhere  in  the 
small  hours,  to  sleep.  It  was  rather  late  when  he  awoke, 
and  an  hour  past  the  usual  breakfast  time  when,  his  toilet 
completed,  he  descended  the  stairs.  The  storm  had  come 
in  pouring  rain,  in  driving  wind,  in  sodden  earth,  and 
frowning  sky. 

Aunt  Hetty  was  alone,  the  table  was  laid  for  two,  a 
delightful  odor  of  coffee  and  waffles  perfumed  the  air. 
She  looked  up  from  her  sewing  with  a  smile  as  he  bade 
her  good-morning. 

"  I  was  just  wondering  if  you  and  Norry  meant  to  keep 
your  rooms  all  day.  Oh,  you  needn't  make  any  apology  ; 
it  is  as  easy  to  wait  breakfast  for  two  as  for  one.  The 
boys  and  me  "—(they  were  the  "  boys  "  still  to  Miss  Hester 
Kent)—"  had  oure  at  seven  o'clock.  Now  sit  right  down 
Mr.  Gilbert,  and  I'll  go  and  rout  out  Norry,  and  you  and 
her  can  have  your  breakfast  sociably  together.  You'll 
have  a  good  many  sociable  breakfasts  alone  together,  I 
dare  say,  before  long.    Gloomy  sort  of  day  now,  ain't  it  ?" 

5 


98 


NOR  INK'S  REVENGE. 


"  Norine  is  not  clown  then  ?  "  the  lawyer  said,  startled  a 
little,  yet  hardly  knowing  why. 

"  Not  yet.  She  ain't  often  lazy  o'  mornings,  ain't  Norry, 
neither.  You  wait,  though.  I'll  have  her  down  in  ten 
minutes." 

He  looked  at  her  .is  though  to  say  something,  changed 
his  mind  suddenly,  and  took  seat.  Miss  Kent  left  the  room. 
Five  minutes  passed.  Then  she  came  rushing  down  the 
stairs,  and  back  to  his  side,  all  white  and  frightened. 

"  Mr.  Gilbert,  Norine's  not  in  her  room  1  Her  bed  was 
not  slept  in  at  all  last  night  1 "  She  sat  down  all  at  once, 
pressing  her  hand  hard  over  her  heart.  "  I'm,"  she  said, 
panting,  "  I'm  very  foolish,  I  know,  but  it  has  given  me 
a  turn." 

He  rose  to  his  feet.  He  knew  it  then  !  As  well  as  he 
ever  knew  it  in  the  after  time,  Richard  Gilbert  knew  it  all 
at  that  moment,  Norine  had  fled. 

"  It  was  she,  then,  who  left  the  house  last  night,"  he 
said,  in  a  hushed  voice  ;  "  and  it  was  a  man's  laugh  1  Was 
it—  My  God !  Was  it—" 

He  stopped,  turning  white  with  the  horror  of  that 
thought. 

"  Call  your  brothers,"  he  said,  his  voice  ringing,  his  face 
setting  white  and  stern  as  stone.  "  We  must  search  for 
her  at  once.  At  all  costs  we  must  find  her — must  bring 
her  back.  Quick,  Miss  Kent  I  Your  brothers!  I  am 
afraid  Norine  has  fled." 

"  Fled  1 " 

"  Fled — run  away  from  home,  for  fear  of  marrying  me. 
Don't  you  understand.  Miss  Kent  ?  Call  your  brothers,  I 
say  every  minute  may  be  worth  a  life — or  more  1    Quick  1 " 

She  obeyed — stunned,  stupefied  by  the  shock,  the  horror 


FLED. 


99 


of  her  amaze.  The  two  men  rushed  wildly  in,  frightened 
by  their  sister's  incoherent  words.  Rapidly,  clearly,  Rich- 
ard Gilbert  told  them  what  he  had  heard  last  night,  told 
them  even  what  he  feared  most. 

"  Thorndyke  has  come  back,  and  either  persuaded  her 
to  run  away  with  him  or  forcibly  abducted  her.  I  feel 
sure  of  it.  I  heard  him  laugh,  and  her  cry  last  night  as 
plainly  as  I  hear  my  own  voice  now.  There  is  not  a 
moment  to  be  lost.  On  with  your  coats !  out  with  the  horses, 
and  let  us  be  off.      Better  she  were  dead  than  with  him.'' 

They  are  gone,  and  the  woman  sits  alone,  stunned, 
speechless,  unable  to  realize  it,  only  dumbly  conscious 
that  something  awful  has  happened.  Norine  has  gone  I 
Fled  on  the  very  eve  of  her  bridal  with  another  man. 
Norine— little  Norrie,  who  but  yesterday  seemed  to  Tier  as 
a  young  innocent  child. 

The  woman  sits  and  weeps  alone  by  her  desolate  hearth. 
The  men  go  forth  into  the  world,  and  forget  their  grief 
for  the  time  in  the  excitement  of  the  search— the  men,  who 
have  the  best  of  it  always. 

All  his  life  long  that  miserable  day  remained  in  Richard 
Gilbert's  memory  more  as  a  sickening  dream  than  as  a 
reality.  He  suffered  afterward— horribly— to-day  he  was 
too  dazed  to  suffer  or  feel.  Whether  found  or  not,  No- 
rine Bourdon  was  lost  to  bim  forever ;  dumbly  he  felt  that, 
but  she  must  be  found.  At  all  costs,  she  must  be  brought 
back  from  Laurence  Thorndyke. 

The  two  men  acted  passively  under  his  orders— awed 
into  silence  by  the  look  on  his  set,  white  face.     Even  to 
them  that  day  remained  as  a  dizzy  dream.     Now  they- 
were  at  the  station,  listening  to  Gilbert's  rapid,  lucid  in- 
quiries and  description,  and  the  clerk  shook  his  head. 


lOO 


NORINE\S  REVENGE. 


"  No,"  he  said  ;  "  so  far  as  he  could  recollect,  no  two 
parties  answering  the  description,  had  left  by  the  earliest 
train  that  morning." 

Then  Mr.  Gilbert  went  backward,  and  tried  the  regis- 
ters of  the  various  hotels  for  the  name  of  Thorndyke.  It 
did  not  appear,  but  in  one  of  the  lesser  hotels  the  question 
was  solved. 

"  Thar  hain't  ben  nobody  here  answerin'  to  that  air," 
said  the  Down-East  innkeeper  ;  "  but  thar  hes  ben  a  chap 
callin'  himself  Smith — ^John  Smith.  That  may  be  the  cove 
you  want.  Likely's  not,  ye  know,  if  he's  ben  up  to  any 
of  his  larks,  he  would  give  a  false  name,  ye  know.  He 
come  Saturday  night— staid  Sunday  and  Monday,  paid  his 
bill  last  evenin',  and  made  himself  scarce.  Shouldn't  be  a 
mite  surprised,  now,  if  he's  the  rooster  you're  after." 

"  Describe  him,"  the  lawyer  said,  briefly. 

"  Wal,  he  was  a  good-lookin'  young  fellow  as  ye'd  wish 
to  see.   Tall  and  slim  and  genteel,  city  clothes,  a  niouslache, 
blueish  eyes,  and  sorter  light  hair— a  swell  young  chap, 
sech  as  we  ain't  used  to  in  our  house." 

"  Thorndyke  !  "  the  lawyer  muttered,  between  his 
teeth. 

"  He  never  stirred  out  all  Sunday,"  pursued  mine  host, 
"  until  after  nightfall.  Then  he  started  off  afoot,  and  it 
was  past  eleven  when  he  got  back.  All  day  Monday  he 
loafed  about  his  room  the  same  way,  and  on  Monday  even- 
nin',  as  I  said,  he  paid  his  bill,  got  a  buggy  somewhere, 
and  drove  off.  And  I  calk'late,  square,  he'd  been  a  drink- 
in',  he  kinder  looked  and  talked  that  way.  That's  all  I 
know  about  Mr.  John  Smith." 

They  telegraphed  along  the  line,  but  without  success. 
Nothing  satisfactory  could  be  discovered.    It  was  noon 


FLED. 


lOI 

Mr.  Gilbert 


now— there  was  a  train  for  Boston  at  two. 

looked  at  his  watch.  •  •  „, ,     •«  t 

«  I  will  not  return  with  you,"  he  said,  decisively.  I 
will  go  on  to  Bostoi.  I  am  positive  he  will  take  her  there 
Meantime,  you  will  leave  no  stone  unturned  to  track  the 

fugitives  here."  . 

"  I'll  go  with  you  to  Boston,"  said  Uncle  Reuben,  quietly ; 
« if  he's  taken  her  there,  my  place  is  on  the  ground  Joe  will 
do  all  he  can  here.  And  by  the  Lord  1  when  I  ^^  see  h.m, 
I'll  make  it  the  dearest  night's  work  he  ever  did  in  his  life 

So  it  was  arranged.     In  the  dismal  loneliness  of  the 
pouring  afternoon,  Joe  Kent  drove  back  alone  to  Ken 
Hill  and  to  the  tortured  woman  waiting  there.  Who  knew  ? 
thought  quiet  Joe.     Perhaps  Mr.  Gilbert  and  Reuben  had 
been  too  hasty,  after  all.     Perhaps  Norine  was  back. 

But  Norine  was  not  back.  The  house  was  empty  and 
desolate-Aunt  Hetty  sat  crying  alone.  She  had  gone 
and  left  no  trace  behind,  not  one  word,  no  note,  no  letter. 
Her  clothes  were  all  untouched,  except  those  she  had  worn, 
and  her  waterproof  cloak.  Surely  she  had  never  meant 
to  run  away,  or  she  would  have  gone  differently  from  that, 
and  left  some  line  of  farewell,  some  prayer  for  pardon  be- 
hind. It  must  be  as  Mr.  Gilbert  had  said-the  villain  had 
taken  her  by  force.  •  u^  *i,o 

And  while  the  rainy  afternoon  deepened  into  night,  the 
two  sad,  silent  men  sat  side  by  side,  flying  along  to  Boston. 
At  every  station  inquiries  were  made,  but  no  one  had  seen 
anything  of  a  young  girl  and  a  young  man  answering  the 
description  given.  So  many  came  and  went  always  it  was 
impossible  to  remember.  So  when  night  fell  m  lashing 
rain  and  raw  east  wind  the  lawyer  and  the  farmer  were  m 
Boston,  and  no  trace  of  runaway  Norine  had  been  found. 


m 


iij :  "■ 


i  i 


CHAPTER  IX. 


'MRS.    LAURENCE. 


Bourdon. 


[T  was  eleven  o'clock  on  the  Wednesday  morn- 
ing following  that  eventful  Monday  night.  In 
an  upper  room,  a  private  parlor  of  a  Boston 
hotel,  seated  in  an  easy  chair,  was  Miss  Norine 
They  had  arrived  this  morning,  and  in  the  hotel 
book  their  names  were  registered  "  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John 
Laurence." 

At  the  present  moment  Miss  Bourdon  is  alone.  Her  dark 
face  is  very  pale,  her  eyelids  are  red  from  much  weeping ; 
at  intervals,  as  she  sits  and  thinks,  the  lovely  dark  eyes 
fill,  the  childlike  lips  quiver,  and  a  sob  catches  her  breath. 
And  yet  she  is  not  really  very  unhappy.  Is  she  not  with 
Laurence  ?  Before  another  hour  passes  will  she  not  be  his 
wife  ?  and  what  is  the  love  of  aunt  or  uncle,  what  the  friend- 
ship of  a  thousand  Mr.  Gilberts  compared  to  the  bliss  of 
that  ?  Truth  to  tell,  the  first  shock  of  consternation  at 
her  enforced  flight  over,  Norine  had  found  forgiveness  easy. 
She  was  only  seventeen,  remember ;  she  was  intensely  ro- 
mantic ;  she  loved  him  with  her  whole,  passionate  heart 
— a  heart  capable,  even  at  seventeen,  of  loving,  and — who 
was  to  tell  ? — perhaps  of  hating  very  strongly.  And  most 
girls  like  bold  lovers.  It  was  a  very  daring  coup  de  main, 
this  carrying  her  off,  quite  like  something  in  a  last  century 
novel,  and  with  his  tender,  persuasive  voice  in  her  ear, 


*<MRS.  LAURENCE." 


103 


his  protecting  arm  about  her  waist,  with  her  own  heart 
pieaLg  for  him,  Norine  was  driven  away  a  not  unw.lUng 

''"'i'hlve  arranged  everything,  my  pet,"  said  Mr.  Thorn- 
dyke  •  "rooms  are  engaged  at  the  W— House,  Boston,  and 
a  dericalf  riend  of  mine  is  to  perform  the  ceremony  very 
^uch  on  the  quiet.    You  don't  object  to  being  marned  m 
rhote7parlor,  and  by  a  Congregationalist  mm.ster  do 
'uT   By-and-by  we'll  take  a  run  over  the  border  and  have 
\L  thing  done  over  again  in  the  sacred  precmcts  of  Notre 
DmedfMontreal.ifyoulike.    ^^^  ^l^l^^'^^^^^^ 
must  be  sub  rasa,  my  darling.    The  old  boy  -I  mean  my 
Tespcted  uncle   Darcy-wiU  cut  up  deuced  rough,  you 
kno^   when  he  first  comes  to  hear  it     He  expects  me  to 
marT;  his  pet,  Nellie  Holmes;  so    does  Miss  Nelhe,  .1 
Te  truth  must  be  told.     So  I  would  have  done,  too,  .f  f  ate 
IndaUken  limb  had  not  thrown  me  upon  r- protec- 
'ron     And  from  that  hour,  my  darling,  my  fate  was  sealed. 
Of  all  the  eyes,  blue,  black,  brown,  green,  or  gray,  for  kU  - 
f4  wholeslle  slaught.,  c^mend  m^  .  tho.  ^of  a^f^ 

Stlrnt^^-^^-h^^^^^ 
I've  engaged,  over  Chelsea  way.  down  by  the  sad  sea 
wives 't^Lpend  the  honeymoon.  And  there  for  one  bless- 
Id  mJnth  we'll  forget  all  the  uncles  and  -ts,^^^^^^^^^^^^^ 
yers  and  heiresses  in  Christendom,  and  'do  love  among 
Ihe  roses.  You  forgive  me  for  carrymg  you  off  m  this 
right  knightly  fashion-you  do,  don't  you,  Norry?  Ah !  I 
know  you  do ;  but  look  up,  my  own  love,  and  tell  me  so. 
'      and  so  make  my  happiness  complete." 

With  a  little  fluttering  sigh  Norine  obeyed,  clmging 
close  to  her  hero's  side  in  the  darkness. 


i 


■  t!  ai'i 


104 


NO  RISE'S  REVENGE. 


"  But  you'll  let  me  write  home  when  we  are  married,  and 
tell  them,  Laurence,  won't  you  ?  They  have  been  so  good 
to  me,  always — always,  and  they  will  think,  oh  yes,  they 
will  think  such  dreadful  things  of  me  now." 

"  They  will  forget  and  forgive,  never  fear,  Norry.  People 
always  come  round  when  they  can't  do  anything  else.  Of 
course  you  shall  write  to  them — of  course  you  shall  do  for 
the  future  precisely  as  you  wish,  and  I  will  only  exist  to  ful- 
fil your  commands.  But  not  just  yet,  you  know ;  not  until 
uncle  Darcy  relents  and  forgives.  Because,  my  pet,  I 
haven't  a  dollar  in  the  world  of  my  own,  except  my  allow- 
ance from  him,  and  I  can't  afford  to  offend  him.  But  I'll 
soon  bring  him  round.  Let  him  see  you  once,  and  all 
will  be  forgiven.  The  man  doesn't  exist,  old  or  young, 
who  could  resist  you.  " 

All  this  was  very  delightful,  of  course  ;  and  in  such  rose- 
colored,  romance-flavored  talk,  the  time  sped  ftn.  Norine's 
spirits  rose  with  the  brisk  drive  in  the  teeth  of  the  night 
gale.  She  was  with  Laurence ;  she  was  never  to  part 
from  him  more.  All  life  held  of  rapture  was  said  for  her 
in  that.  It  was  rather  a  drawback,  certainly,  that  she 
might  not  tell  them  at  home  of  her  felicity  at  once,  but  she 
would  just  drop  them  a  line  from  Boston  to  say  she  was 
safe  and  well  and  happy,  that  they  were  not  to  worry  about 
her,  and  to  beg  Mr.  Gilbert's — poor  Mr.  Gilbert's — ^pardon. 
That  much  Laurence  would  consent  to,  of  course.  To  be 
married  in  a  hotel  parlor,  by  a  Congregational ist  Minister 
was  also  ever  so  little  of  a  drawback,  to  a  little  French 
Canadienne,  but  one  must  not  expect  unalloyed  earthly 
happiness.  And  had  not  Laurence  said  they  would  go 
one  day  to  Montreal — dear  old  Montreal,  and  be  re- 
married in  Notre  Dame  ?     Then  she  would  visit  Aunt 


I; 


"MRS.  LAURENCE." 


105 


j^ 


H 
^ 


Hetty  and  Uncle  Reuben  ;  then  she  would  go  to  New 
York  and  plead  with  Mr.  Darcy  for  her  beloved  husband, 
and  Mr.  Darcy  would  grant  that  pardon,  and  then— 
what  then  ?  Well,  nothing  then,  of  course,  only  live  and| 
be  happy  forever  after  1  The  sloop,  in  which  Mr.  Thorn- 
dyke  had  engaged  passage,  was  ready  to  sail.  Norine  was 
consigned  to  the  care  of  the  captain's  wife  for  the  trip, 
and  was  soon  so  utterly  prostrate  with  mal  tie  mer,  that  love 
and  Laurence  were  forgott-^n. 

To  tell  the  truth,  Mr.  Thorndyke  was  miserably  sea-sick 
himself ;  but  this  mode  of  travel  had  been  forced  upon  him 
by  the  exigencies  of  the  case.    The  pursuers  must  be 
thrown  off  the  track.     Gilbert  would  surely  suspect  and 
follow  ;  if  they  went  by  rail,  he  would  inevitably  hunt  them 
down. '  So,  of  necessity,  he  chose  the  sloop,  and  with  a 
head  wind  and  driving  rain,  spent  Monday  night,  Tuesday, 
and  Tuesday  night  sea-sick  and  prostrate.     Wednesday 
morning  came  and  they  were  in  Boston.     It  came  in  pour- 
ing rain  and  leaden  sky,  and  the  bleak  easterly  wind  your 
Bostonian  dreads.    They  drove  to  the  hotel.  Miss  Bourdon 
dreadfully  ashamed  of  her  old  waterproof,  and  ascended 
to  their  private  parlor.    Mr.  Thorndyke  ordered  breakfast 
to  be  served  here  at  once,  and  both  partook  of  that  repast 
when  it  came,  with  very  excellent  appetites.     Mr.  Thorn, 
dyke  had  had  some  more  brandy,  which  tonic,  doubt- 
less, stimulated  his  appetite,  his  resolution  and  his  love 
together.     Then  he  put  on  his  hat,  looked  at  his  watch, 
and  departed  on  matrimonial  business  intent. 

"  I'll  be  off  for  the  Reverend  Jonas  Maggs  (his  name's  the 
Reverend  Jonas  Maggs)  at  once,  and  make  you  Mrs. 
Thorndyke  before  you  eat  your  dinner.  And  I'll  order 
a  few  things  here— a  hat,  for  instance,  a  sacque,  and  a  few 

5* 


^H<'^ 


106 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


dresses  and  gloves.     I'll  be  back  in  an  hour  or  two  at  the 
longest.  You  won't  be  lonely,  my  darling,  while  I'm  gone?" 
She  had  answered  him  "no,"  and  with    a  very  affec- 
tionate embrace,  he  had  left  her.     But  in  his  absence  she 
did  grow  lonely,  did  grow  saddened  and  remorseful.   What 
must  they  think  of  her  at  home  ?  They  had  discovered  her 
flight  by  this  time— all  was  consternation  and  terror.     They 
would  wonder  what  had  happened— why  she  had  gone, 
whither,  and  if  alone. -sAunt  Hetty  she  could  see  weeping 
and  refusing  to  be  comfd^ted  ;  her  uncles  shocked,  speech- 
less,   terrified;    Mr.    Gilbert    pale,    stern,   and   perhaps 
guessing  the  truth.     He  had  loved  her,  very  truly  and 
dearly,  and  Thursday  next  was  to  have  been  his  wedding 
day.    Oh  !  what  a  cruel,  wicked,    heartless,    ungrateful 
wretch  she  must  be  now  in  his  sight  !  How  he  would  scorn 
and  despise  her  —  how  they  all  would !   Would  they  ever 
forgive  her  for  this  shameful   flight— this  cold-bjooded 
treachery  ?  One  day  she  might,  perhaps,  come  face  to  face 
with  Mr.  Gilbert,  in  the  busy  whirl  of  New  York  life,  and 
how  would  she  ever  dare  to  meet  his  angry,  scornful  eye  ? 
As  Laurence's  wife,  the  deepest  bliss  life  could  give  would 
be  hers,  but  through  all  her  life  long,  even  in  the  midst  of 
this  bliss,  the  trail  of  the  serpent  would  be  over  all  still,  in  her 
undying  shame  and  remorse.  The  ready  tears  of  seventeen 
fell,  until  all  at  once  Miss  Bourdon  recollected  that  Lau- 
rence would  be  here  presently  with  the  clergyman,  and 
that  it  would  never  do  to  be  married  with  red  eyes  and  a 
swollen  nose.     She  sprang  up,  bathed  her  face,  brushed 
out  her  long  silky  black  hair,  and  by  the  time  she  had 
made  herself  pretty  and  bright,  Mr.  Thorndyke's  light  step 
came  flying  up  the  stairs,  three  at  a  bound,  and  Mr. 
Thorndyke's  impetuous  tap  was  at  the  door. 


"MRS.  LAURENCE:' 


107 


"  Come  in,"  she  said,  her  heart  beginning  to  flutter,  and 
the  bridegroom  came  in,  handsome,  smiling,  eager,  follow- 
ed by  a  seedy-looking  personage  in  rusty  black,  and  the 
professional  "  choker  "  of  ding-y  white. 

"  Out  of  patience,  Nonwe  ?  But  I  could  not  come  an 
instant  sooner,  and  i;  is  only  half-past  eleven.  My  friend, 
the  Reverend  Jonas  Maggs,  Miss  Bourdon,  soon  to  be 
transformed  into  Mrs.  Laurence  Thorndyke;  and  the 
sooner  the  better.  Here's  the  ring,  Norry,  bought  hap- 
hazard—let's see  if  it  fits  the  dear  little  finger.  So !  as 
if  you  were  born  in  it.  Now  then,  Mr.  Maggs,  pity  the 
impatience  of  ardent  love,  and  get  on  with  the  cere- 
mony. " 

High  spirits  these  for  a  runaway  match.  The  handsome 
face  was  flushed,  the  blue  eyes  feverishly  bright,  a  strong 
odor  of  cigars  and  cognac  pervaded  Mr.  Thorndyke's 
broadcloth.  The  Rev.  Mr.  Maggs  coughed,  a  meek, 
clerical  cough,  looked  furtively  and  admiringly  at. the 
bride,  drew  forth  a  book,  and  "  stood  at  ease."  Mr. 
Thorndyke  drew  Miss  Bourdon  up  before  him,  the  ring 
between  his  fingers,  an  odd  sort  of  smile  on  his  lips.  For 
Norine,  she  had  grown  ashen  white;  now  that  the  supreme 
moment  had  come,  she  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot 
Even  to  her  inexperience  there  was  something  bizarre, 
something  wrong  and  abnormal,  in  this  outre  sort  of 
marriage.  A  bride  without  bridal  dress,  veil  or  blossoins ; 
without  bridesmaid,  or  friend  ;  a  bridegroom  splashed  with 
mud  and  rain  drops,  without  groomsman  or  witness.  And 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Maggs,  for  a  holy  man,  was  as  dirty  and 
disreputable  a  specimen  of  the  class  as  one  might  wish  to 
see.  She  stood  by  his  side,  pale  to  the  lips,  afraid  of— she 
knew  not  what    As  in  a  dream  she  heard  Mr.  Maggs 


_# 


1..  ■ , 


Ifi 


108  NORINE'S  REVENGE. 

gabbling  over  some  sort  of  ceremony.  As  in  a  dream  she 
saw  the  ring  slipped  over  her  finger.  As  in  a  dream  she 
saw  him  shut  up  his  book  with  a  slap,  and  heard  him  pro- 
nounce them  man  and  wife.  Then  for  the  first  time  she  lifted 
her  eyes,  full,  clear,  questioning  to  the  face  of  Laurence 
Thorndyke.  For  the  first  time,  perhaps,  m  his  own 
experience  of  himself  he  shrank  before  their  crystal  clear, 
childishly  innocent  gaze.  His  were  still  full  of  that 
intolerable  light  of  triumph-that  exultant  smile  yet  lin- 

eered  on  his  lips.  ,     ,    •  ^ 

HedrewMaggs  aside  and  slipped  a  cnsp  greenback,  into 

his  hand.    Then  the  reverend  gentleman  resumed  his  hat, 

bowed  to  the  bride,  wished  her  joy  with  an  unctuous  smile, 

and  slowly  took  himself  out  of  the  room.  . .    ..  „ 

"  My  dear  little  wife  1 "  Laurence  Thorndyke  said.  You 
have  made  me  the  happiest  man  in  America  to-day. 
For  the  next  four  weeks,  in  our  pretty  Chelsea  cottage,  it 
shall  be  ou  r  business  to  forget  that  the  world  holds  another 
human  ere  tr.re  than  our  two  selves. " 

"  And  I've  ^ti\Ayou  off,  I  think,  my  friend  Gilbert,  with 
compound  interest."  Mr.  Thorndyke  added,  mentally,  as 
a  rider  to  that  prettj'  little  speech.  "  V  m  not  over  and 
above  rich  this  morning,  but  I'd  give  a  cool  hundred  to 

see  your  face. "  ,  ^.„^    ..      j 

And  so,  while  not  half  a  mile  off,  Richard  Gilbert  and 
Reuben  Kent  were  searching,  with  the  aid  of  a  detective 
officer,  every  hotel  in  Boston,  a  hack  was  rattling  over  the 
stones  to  Chelsea  Ferry,  bearing  to  their  bridal  home 
Laurence  Thorndyke  and  Norine. 


CHAPTER  X. 

"A  fool's  paradise." 

IHE  little  house  was  like  a  picture — like  a  doll's 
house,  the  whitest,  the  brightest,  the  trimmest, 
the  tiniest  of  all  tiny  houses.    It  nestled  down 
in  a  sheltered  nook,  with  its  back   set  com- 
fortably against  a  hill.   Its  pretty  little  garden  full  of  pret- 
ty little  flowers,  climbing  roses  and  scarlet-runners  all 
over  its  inviting  porch,  and  away  beyond,  Chelsea  beach, 
like  a  strip  of  silver  ribbon,  and  the  dimpling  sea,  smiling 
back  the  sunshine.     No  other  house  within  a  quarter  of  a 
mile,  the  dim,  dark  woodland  rising  up  in  the  background, 
the  big,  bustling,  work-a-day  world  shut  out   on    every 
hand.      Could  Laurence  Thorndyke,  if  he  had  searched 
for  half  a  lifetime,  have  found  a  more  charming,  more 
secluded  spot  in  which  to  dream  out  Love's  Young  Dream? 
And  the  dream  was  pretty  nearly  dreamed  out  now. 
For  the  fourth  week  had  come,  and  the  days  of  the 
honey  month  were  drawing  to  a  close.    If  the  truth  must 
be  told,  the  honey  had  cloyed  upon  Mr.  Thorndyke's 
fastidious  palate  before  the  end  of  the  second  week,  had 
grown  distasteful  ere  the  end  of  the  third— had  palled 
entirely  at  the  beginning  of  the  fourth.     In  other  words, 
the  honey-moon  business  and  doing  "  love  in  a  cottage," 
buried  alive  here,  was  fast  becoming  a  most  horrible  bore. 


f 


no 


NO  NINE'S  REVENGE. 


"If  I  had  been  very  much  in  love  with  the  girl" 
thought  Mr.  Thorndylie,  communing  with  his  own  heart, 
"  it  might  have  been  different — even  then,  though,  let  it 
have  been  ever  so  severe  a  case  of  spoons,  I  don't  think 
I  could  have  stood  another  week  of  this  deadly  lively  sort 
of  thing.  But  I  wasn't  very  much  in  love.  If  you  know 
yourself,  Laurence  Thorndyke,  and  you  flatter  yourself 
you  do,  it  isn't  in  you  to  get  up  a  grande passion  for  any 
body.  There  was  Lucy  West,  there  is  Helen  Holmes, 
"here  is  Norine  Bourdon.  I  don't  believe  you  ever  had 
more  than  a  passing  fancy  for  any  of  them,  and  your  motto 
ever  has  been  •  lightly  won  lightly  lost.' " 

He  was  lying  upon  a  sofa,  stretched  at  full  length,  his 
hands  clasped  behind  his  head,  a  cloud  of  cigar  smoke 
half-vailing  his  handsome,  lazy,  bored  face,  his  eyes  fixed 
dreamily  upon  the  sparkling  sea.  Down  on  the  strip  of 
tawny  sand  he  could  see  Norine,  looking  like  a  Dresden 
china  shepherdess  in  her  white  looped-up  dress,  some  blue 
drapery  caught  about  her,  a  jaunty  sailor  hat  on  her 
crushed  dark  curls,  and  a  cluster  of  pink  roses  in  her  belt. 
"  She's  very  pretty,  and  all  that,"  pursued  this  youthful 
philosopher  and  cynic,  looking  at  her  with  dispassionate 
eyes,  "but  is  the  game  worth  the  candle  ?  Three  weeks  and 
two  days,  and  I'm  sick  and  tired  to  death  of  this  place,  and 

alas !  my  pretty  Norry— of  you  I    '  Men  were  deceivers 

ever.'  I  suppose  it  was  much  the  same  in  old  Shakspeare's 
time  as  it  is  now.  It  is  all  very  well  to  pay  off  Gilbert,  and 
wipe  out  the  old  scores,  but  it  is  not  at  all  very  well  to  be 
disinherited  by  old  Darcy.  If  it  comes  to  his  ears  it's  all 
up  with  my  chance  of  the  inheritance,  and  my  marriage 
with  Helen.  .  And,  upon  my  word,  I  shouldn't  like  to  lose 
Helen.     She's  good-looking,  she's  good  style,  she  can  talk 


Lii'l 


"A  FOOL'S  PARADISE," 


III 


on  any  subject  under  Heaven,  and  she's  twenty  thousand 
df)llars  down  on  her  wedding-chiy.  Yes,  it  will  never  do 
to  throw  up  my  chances  there,  but  how  to  drop  quietly  out 
of  this— that's  the  rub.  There'll  be  the  dickens  to  pay 
with  Norinc,  and  sometimes  I've  thought  of  late,  gentle  as 
she  is,  much  as  she  loves  me — and  she  does  love  me,  poor 
little  soul — that  she's  not  one  of  the  milk-and-water  sort  to 
sit  down  in  a  corner  and  break  her  heart  quietly.  I  wish 
—I  wish— I  wish  I  had  left  her  in  peace  at  Kent  Farm  I " 
She  was  beckoning  to  him  gaily  at  that  moment.  He 
shook  off  his  disagreeable  meditation,  put  his  long  limbs 
down  off  the  sofa,  took  his  straw  hat,  and  sauntered  forth 
to  join  her. 

The  little  house— Sea  View  Cottage,  its  romantic  mis- 
tress had  named  it,  was  owned  by  the  two  Miss  Waddles. 
The  two  Miss  Waddles  were  two  old  maids.  Miss  Waddle, 
the  elder,  taught  school  in  Chelsea.  Miss  Waddle,  the 
younger,  was  literary,  and  wrote  sensation  stories  for  the 
weekly  papers,  poor  thing.  In  addition,  they  eked  out  their 
income  by  taking  a  couple  of  summer  boarders,  for  people 
as  a  rule  don't  become  millionaires  teaching  school  or 
writing  for  the  papers.  Miss  V/addle,  the  younger,  immersed 
in  ink  and  romance,  looked  after  the  young  man  with  eyes 
of  keen  professional  interest. 

"  How  grumpy  he  looks,"  thought  Miss  Waddle;  "  how 
radiant  she  looks.  He's  tired  to  death  of  it  all  already ; 
she's  more  and  more  in  love  with  him  every  day.  The  first 
week  he  was  all  devotion,  the  second  week  the  thermometer 
fell  ten  degrees,  the  third  week  he  took  to  going  to  Boston 
and  coming  home  in  the  small  hours,  smelling  of  smoke 
and  liquor,  this  fourth  he  yawns  in  her  face  from 
morning  until  night.     And  this  is  what  fools  call  the 


113 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


M: 


honey-moon.    Moonshine  enough,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  but 
precious  little  honey.  " 

Miss  Waddle  stabbed  her  pen  down  in  the  inkstand, 
took  a  deep  and  vicious  dip,  and  plunged  wildly  into 
literature  once  more.  Mr.  'I'horndyke,  listlessly,  wearily 
and  unutterably  bored,  joined  the  idol  of  his  existence. 

In  the  Chelsea  cottage  they  were  known   as  "  Mr.   and 
Mrs.  Laurence."     For  Norine,  she  was  radiantly  happy- 
no  weariness,  no  boredom  for  her.    The  honey  grew  sweeter 
■  to  her  taste  every  day  ;  but  then  women  »s  a  rule  have  a 
depraved  taste  for  unwholesome  sweetmeats  ;  the  days  Mr. 
Thorndyke  found  so  long,  so  vapid,  so  dreary,  were  bright, 
brief  dreams  of  bliss  to  her.     She  had  written  her  short 
explanatory  note  home  during  the  first  week,  and  had 
given  it  to  Laurence  to  post.    Laurence  took  it,  glad  of  an 
excuse  over  to  Boston,  and  on  the  ferry-boat  tore  it  mto 
fifty  minute  fragments  and  cast  them  to  the  four  wiyds  of 
Heaven.    Norine  had  written  a  second  time,  and  a  third. 
Her  piteous  little  letters  met  the  same  fate.    That  was 
one  drawback  to  her  perfect  Paradise-there  was  a  second, 
Laurence's  growing  weariness  of  it  all. 

"  If  he  should  become  tired  of  me ;  if  he  should  repent 
his  hasty  marriage ;  if  he  should  cease  to  love  me,  what 
would  become  of  me  ?"  she  thought,  clasping  her  hands 
in  an  agony.  "  Oh,  mon  Dieu  1  let  me  die  sooner  than 
that.  I  know  I  am  far  beneath  him— such  lovely,  accom- 
plished ladies  as  my  darling  might  have  married— but 
ah,  not  one  of  them  all  could  ever  love  him  better  than  poor 

Norine ! " 

She  hid  her  fears  ;  the  tears  she  shed  over  their  silence 
and  unforgiveness  at  home  were  tears  shed  in  solitude  and 
darkness,  where  they  might  not  offend  or  reproach  him. 


"A  FOOVS  PARADISE." 


"3 


She  tried  every  simple  little  art  to  be  beautiful  and  attractive 
in  his  sight.  Her  smiling  face  was  the  last  thing  he  saw, 
let  him  quit  her  ever  so  often — her  smiling  face  looked 
brightly  and  sweetly  up  at  him  let  those  absences  be  ever 
so  prolonged.  And  they  were  growing  more  frequent  and 
more  prolonged  every  day.  He  took  her  nowhere — his 
own  evenings,  without  exception  now,  were  spent  in  lioston, 
the  smallest  of  the  small  hours  his  universal  hours  for 
coming  home.  And  not  always  too  steady  of  foot  or  too 
fluent  of  speech  at  these  comings,  for  this  captivating 
young  man  was  fonder  of  the  rattle  of  the  dice-box,  the 
shuffling  of  the  pack,  and  the  "  passing  of  the  rosy  "  than 
was  at  all  good  for  him. 

"Laurence,"  Norine's  bright  voice  called,  "you  know 
everything.  Come  and  tell  me  what  is  this  botanical 
specimen  I  have  found  growing  here  in  the  cleft  of  the 
rocks." 

She  held  up  a  spray  of  blue  blossom.  Laurence  looked 
at  it  languidly. 

"  I  know  everything,  I  admit,  but  I  don't  know  that. 
If  you  had  married  old  Gilbert  now,  my  darling,  your  thirst 
for  information  might  have  been  quenched.  There  isn't 
anything,  from  the  laws  of  the  nations  down  to  the  name  of 
every  weed  that  grows,  he  hasn't  at  his  learned  legal 
finger  ends.  Oh,  Lord,  Norry,  what  a  long  day  this  has 
been — fifty-eight  hours  if  one." 

He  casts  himself  on  the  sands  at  her  feet,  pulls  his 
hat  over  his  eyes,  and  yawns  long  and  loudly.  Her 
happy  face  clouds,  the  dark,  lovely  eyes  look  at  him 
wistfully. 

"  It  is  dull  for  you,  dear,"  she  says,  tenderly,  a  little  tre- 
mor in  the  soft,  sweet  tones  ;  "  for  me  the  days  seem  all 


^^m 


, ,  .  NO  NINE'S  RE  VENGE. 

114 

too  short-I  am  so  happy,  I  suppose."     He  glances  up  at 
her,  struggling  feebly  with  a  whole  mouthful  of  gapes. 

"  You  «r.  happy,  then,  Norry,  are  you?  Almost  as 
happy  as  when  at  home;  almost  as  happy  as  if  you  had 
Lnfed  that  ornament  of  society,  Richard  G.lbert,  instead 
of  the  scapegrace  and  outlaw,  Laurence  fhorndyke? 

She  clasped  her  hands,  always  her  habit  when  moved. 

"  So  happy  1"  she  said,  under  her  breath ;  "  so  perfectly, 
utterly  happy.  How  could  I  ever  have  thought  of  marrying 
any  one  but^ou,  Laurence-you  whom  I  loved  from  the  very 

""^^AnT-'-he  has  the  grace  to  hesitate  a  little-"  't  wo^'d 
make  you  very  unhappy  if  we  were  forced  to  part,  1  suppose, 

^°'part> "  She  starts,  grows  very  white,  and  two  dilated 
eves  turn  to  him.  "  Laurence,  why  do  you  ask  me 
that?  Unhappy?      Mon  Dieu!  it  would  kill  me -just 

He  laughs  a  little,  but  uneasily,  and  shifts  away  from  the 
gaze  of  the  large,  terrified  eyes. 

»  Kill  you  ?  No,  you're  not  the  sort  that  die  so  easily. 
Don't  look  so  white  and  frightened,  child ;  I  didn't  mean 
anything,  at  least,  not  anything  serious  ;  only  we  have  been 
almost  a  month  here  and  it  is  about  time  I  went  to  pay  my 
respected  Uncle  Darcy  a  visit.  He  has  taken  to  asking 
unpleasant  questions  of  late-where  I  am,  what  I  am 
doing,  why  I  don't  report  myself  at  headquarters-meamn? 
his  house  in  New  York.  Norry,  there's  no  help  for  it; 
I'll  have  to  take  a  run  up  to  New  York." 

She  sits  down  suddenly,    her  hand  over    her  heart, 
white  as  the  dress  she  wears. 

«  Of  course  I  need  not  stay  long,"  Mr.  Thomdyke 


"A  FOODS  PARADISE." 


nS 


pursues,  his  hat  still  over  his  eyes;  "but  go  I  must,  there's 
no  alternative.  And  then,  perhaps,  if  I  get  a  chance,  I 
can  break  it  to  him  gently — about  you,  you  know.  I  hate 
the  thought  of  leaving  you,  and  all  that— nobody  more ; 
but  still,  as  I've  told  you,  I'm  absolutely  depending  upon 
him  ;  the  exchequer  is  running  low  and  must  be  replenished. 
Conjugal  love  is  a  capital  thing,  but  a  fellow  can't  live  on 
it.  Love  may  con  t  and  love  may  go,  but  board  goes  on 
forever.  You'll  stay  here  with  the  two  Waddles,  do  fancy 
work,  read  novels,  and  take  walks,  and  you'll  never  find 
the  time  slipping  by  until  I  am  back.  You  don't  mind,  do 
you,  Norine  ? " 

"  How  long  will  you  be  gone  ? "  she  asks,  in  an  odd, 
constrained  sort  of  voice. 

"  Well,  two  or  three  weeks,  perhaps.  I  shall  have  busi- 
ness to  attend  to,  and — and  all  that.  But  I'll  be  back  at 
the  earliest  possible  moment,  be  sure  of  that." 

She  does  not  speak.  She  stands  looking,  with  that 
white  change  in  her  face,  over  the  sunny  sea. 

"  Come,  Norine !  "  he  exclaims,  impatiently, "  you're 
not  going  to  be  a  baby,  I  hope.  If  you  love  me,  as  you 
say  you  do—"  She  turns  and  looks  at  him,  and  he 
alters  the  phrase  suddenly,  with  an  uneasy  laugh.  "  Well, 
since  you  love  me  so  well,  Norry,  you  must  try  and  have  a 
litde  common  sense.  Common  sense  and  pretty  girls  are 
incompatible,  I  know ;  but  really,  my  dear  child,  you  can't 
expect  that  our  whole  lives  are  to  be  spent  billing  and  coo- 
ing here.  It  would  be  very  delicious,  no  doubt " — a  great 
yawn  stifles  his  words  for  an  instant — "  but — ^by  Jove  ! 
who':,  this  ? " 

He  raises  himself  on  his  elbow,  pushes  back  his  hat,  and 
stared  hard  at  an  advancing  figure.     Norine  follows  his 


ii6 


NORINEPS  REVENGE. 


glance,  and  sees,  stepping  rapidly  over  the  sand,  the  small, 
slim  figure  of  a  man. 

•'  The— devil !"  says  Laurence  Thorndyke. 

He  springs  to  his  feet,  and  stands  waiting.  The  man 
advances,  comes  near,  lifts  his  hat  to  the  lady,  and  looks 
with  a  calm  glance  of  recognition  at  the  gentleman.  He  is  a 
pale,  thin,  sombre  little  man,  not  too  well  dressed,  with  keen, 
small,  light  blue  eyes,  and  thin,  decisive,  beardless  lips. 

"  Good-day,  Mr.  Thorndyke,"  he  says,  quietly. 

"  Liston— it  is  Liston  1"  exclaims  Mr.  Thorndyke,  a  red, 
angry  flush  mounting  to  his  face.  "  At  your  usual  inso- 
lent tricks,  I  see— dogging  me !     May  I  ask—" 

"How  I  have  found  you  out?"  Mr.  Liston  interrupts, 
in  the  same  calm,  quiet  voice.  "  I  knew  you  were  here 
three  weeks  ago,  Mr.  Thorndyke.  I  saw  Maggs— the 
Reverend  Jonas  Maggs — in  Boston." 

He  lifts  his  light,  keen  eyes  for  one  second  to  Laurence 
Thorndyke's,  then  drops  them  to  the  sands.  The  red 
flush  deepens  on  the  young  man's  blonde  face,  his  blue 
eyes  flash  steely  fire. 

"  By  Heaven,  you  have ! "  he  exclaims,  in  as  uppressed 
voice.     "  Has  the  drunken  fool — " 

Liston  interrupts  again : 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Laurence,  but  if  you  will  step 
aside  with  me,  I  would  like  to  say  a  few  words  to  you. 
Meantime,  here  are  two  letters— one  from  your  uncle,  the 

other—" 

"  H'm !  All  right  Liston  I  "  Thorndyke  says,  hastily,  and 
with  a  warning  glance.  "  My  uncle  has  sent  you  to  hunt 
me  up  as  usual,  I  suppose." 

"  As  usual,  Mr.  Laurence.  He  commands  your  imme- 
diate presence  in  New  York." 


"A  FOOLS  PARADISE." 


U7 


Again  the  color  mounts  to  the  young  man's  face,  again 
his  eyes  flash  angry  fre. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,  Liston,  that  you  or  that  d 

snivelling  hypocrite,  Maggs — " 

"  Mr.  Thorndyke,"  says  Mr.  Listen,  interrupting  for  the 
third  time,  and  raising  his  voice  slightly,  "  I  have  a  word 
to  say  to  you  in  private— if  the  young  lady  will  excuse 

you." 

He  bows  in  a  sidelong  sort  of  way  to  Norine,  and  watch- 
es her  furtively  beneath  his  drooping  eyelids.  She  is 
standing  very  still,  her  eyes  on  one  of  the  letters—a 
square,  perfumed,  rose-colored  letter  superscribed  in  a  lady's 
delicate  tracery,  and  bearing  the  monogram  "  H.  H." 
Thorndyke  thrusts  both  abruptly  into  his  pocket,  and 
draws  her  aside. 

"Go  back  to  the  house,  Norine,"  he  says  hastily.  "I 
must  hear  what  this  fellow  has  to  say.  He's  secretary- 
confidential  clerk,  valet,  factotum  generally,  to  my  uncle. 
And  I  wish  the  devil  had  him  before  he  ever  found  me 
out  here  I " 

She  obeys  passively,  very  pale,  still. 

«« That snivelling  hypocrite,  Maggs ! "  she  is  repeat- 
ing inwardly.  "  What  a  dreadful  way  to  speak  of  a  clergy- 
man I" 

Mr.  Thorndyke  rejoins  Mr.  Liston,  a  scowl  on  his  face, 

his  brows  lowering  and  angry. 

«  Well  ? "  he  demands,  savagely. 

"  Well,"  the  new-comer's  quiet  voice  repeats, "  don't  lose 
you  temper,  Mr.  Laurence  —  I  haven't  done  anything. 
Your  uncle  told  me  to  hunt  you  up,  and  I  have  hunted 
you  up — that  is  all." 

"  When  did  he  tell  you,  confound  him  ? " 


ii8 


NORINEPS  REVENGE. 


I 


' 


I 


!  i 

l! 
i' 


w\ 


"  One  week  ago,  Mr,  Laurence," 

"  A  week  ago }   I  thought  you  said — " 

"  That  I  met  Maggs  three  weeks  ago  ?  So  I  did.  That  he 
was  beastly  drunk  ?  So  he  was.  That  he  told  me  all  ?  So 
he  did.  That  I  have  kept  my  eyes  upon  you,  off  and  on, 
ever  since  ?  So  I  have.  Mr,  Laurence,  Mr.  Laurence,  I 
wonder  you're  not  afraid." 

A  suppressed  oath — no  other  reply  from  Mr,  Laurence. 
He  gnaws  his  mustache,  and  digs  vicious  holes  with  his 
boots  in  the  soft  sand, 

"You're  a  bold  card,  Mr,  Laurence,"  pursues  Mr,  Liston's 
monotonous  voice.  "  You've  played  a  good  many  daring 
games  in  your  life,  but  this  last  daring  game  I  think,  has 
put  the  topper  on  the  lot,  I  fancied  mock  parsons,  sham 
marriages,  and  carrying  off  young  ladies  by  night,  went 
out  of  fashion  with  Gretna  Green  and  Mrs,  Radcliffe's 
romances.  If  ever  Mr.  Darcy  hears  of  it,  the  sooner  you 
take  a  rope  and  hang  yourself,  the  better." 

Another  smothered  imprecation  of  rage  and  impatience 
from  Mr.  Thorndyke,  "  If  I  only  had  Maggs  here,"  he 
says,  clenching  his  fist 

"  You  would  punch  his  head  for  him— very  likely. 
But  I  don't  know  that  even  that  would  do  much  good. 
He's  got  the  jim-jams  to-day,  poor  brute,  the  worst  kind. 
For  you,  Mr,  Laurence — how  long  before  this  play  of  yours 
is  played  out  ? " 

"  I'm  going  to  New  York  to-morrow,"  growls  Mr.  Laurence 
Thorndyke.   "  I  was  just  telling  her  so  as  you  hove  in  sight. " 

"  Ah  1  you  were  just  telling  her  so — the  play  is  played 
out,  then.  May  I  ask,  Mr.  Laurence,  though  it  is  none  of 
my  business,  how  the  poor  thing  takes  it  ? " 

"  No,  you  mayn't  ask,"  replies  Mr,  Laurence,  with  ferocity, 


"A  FOOL'S  PARADISE." 


119 


"  as  you  say  it's  none  of  your  business.  Liston !  look  here, 
you're  not  going  to  turn  State's  evidence,  are  you — honor 
bright  ?    You  are  not  going  to  tell  the  old  man." 

His  angry  voice  drops  to  a  pleading  cadence.  Mr.  Lis- 
ton's  shifty  light  eyes  look  up  at  him  for  a  moment. 

"  Do  I  ever  tell  Mr.  Laurence  ?  It  is  late  in  the  day  to 
ask  such  a  question  as  that. 

"  So  it  is.  You're  not  half  a  bad  fellow,  old  boy,  and 
have  got  me  out  of  no  end  of  scrapes.  Get  me  out  of 
this  and  I'll  never  forget  it — that  I  swear.  One  of  these 
days  you  -shall  have  your  reward  in  hard  cash — that  I 
promise  you." 

"  When  you  marry  Miss  Holmes  ?  It's  a  bargain,  Mr. 
Laurence— I'll  try  and  earn  my  reward.  What  is  it  you 
want  me  to  do  ? " 

"  I'm  going  to  New  York  to-morrow,"  Thorndyke  says, 
hurriedly.  "  I  must  invent  some  excuse  for  the  governor, 
and  what  I  say  you  are  to  swear  to.  And  when  peace  is 
proclaimed  you  must  come  back  and  tell  her.  I  can't  do 
it  myself — by  George,  I  can't." 
"  Is  that  all  ? "  asked  Mr.  Liston. 

"  You'll  look  after  her — poor  little  soul  1  and,  if  she 
wishes  it,  take  her  to  her  friends.  I'm  sorry,  sorry,  sorry — 
for  her  sake  and  for  my  own.  But  it's  rather  late  for  all 
that.     Liston,  is  Richard  Gilbert  in  town  ? " 

"He  is  in  town.  He  has  been  to  see  your  uncle. 
He  has  been  speaking  of  this  girl.  My  wordl  Mr. 
Laurence,  you'll  have  to  do  some  hard  swearing  to  prove 
an  alibi  this  time." 

"  Curse  the  luck !  Tell  me  what  Darcy  said  to  you, 
Liston,  word  for  word." 

"Mr.   Darcy  said  this:   'Liston,  go  and  find  young 


IZF 


i!^Si»?Slfe3SS 


i2e 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


Thorndyke  (he  never  calls  you  young  Thorndyke  except 
when  he's  very  far  gone  in  anger,  indeed),  and  fetch  him 
to  me.  And  hark'ee,  fellow  I  no  lying  from  you  or  him. 
If  what  I  hear  of  him  be  true,  I'll  never  look  upon  his 
false,  cowardly  face  again,  living  or  dead.'  He  was  in  one 
of  his  white  rages,  when  the  less  said  the  better.  That  was 
a  week  ago,  I  had  known  all  about  you  for  two  weeks  be- 
fore.    I  bowed,  kept  my  own  counsel,  and — here  I  am." 

"  You're  a  trump,  Liston  I  And  he  gave  you  this  letter  ? " 

"  He  gave  me  that  letter.  You'll  find  it  considerably 
shorter  than  sweet.  The  other  came  from  Miss  Holmes, 
a  few  days  ago— he  sent  that  too." 

"  She  doesn't  know—" 

"  Not  likely.  She  will  though,  if  the  old  man  finds 
out,  and  then  you're  cake's  dough  with  a  vengeance.  How 
do  you  suppose  the  lltde  one  (she's  very  pretty,  Mr. 
Laurence — you  always  had  good  taste),  how  do  you  sup- 
pose she  will  take  it  ? " 

Mr.  Thorndyke's  reply  was  a  groan. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake  don't  ask  me,  Liston  I  It's  a  horri- 
ble business.     I  must  have  been  mad." 

"  Of  course — ^madlv  in  love." 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort — not  in  love  at  all.  It  was  pure 
spite — I  give  you  my  word — not  a  spark  of  real  love  in  the 
matter,  except  what  was  on  her  side.  Gilbert  was  going 
to  marry  her,  you  know." 

"  I  know." 

"  And  I  hate  him  as  I  hate  the  — 

"  Prince  of  evil !  I  know  that,  too." 

"You  know  everything  that's  my  opinion.  What  a 
detective  was  lost  in  you,  old  boy.  Perhaps  you  know 
why  I  hate  him  ? " 


"  A  FOOL'S  PARADISE." 


121 


"  He  has  blocked  one  or  two  little  games  of  yours. 
And  he  '  peached  '  in  that  affair  of  Lucy  West." 

"  Liston  I  what  an  infernal  scoundrel  you  must  think 
me  1  When  you  recall  Lucy  West,  I  wonder  you  don't  hate 
me  tenfold  more  than  I  hate  Gilbert." 

"  I  do  think  you  an  infernal  scoundrel,"  replies  Mr. 
Liston,  coolly.  "  As  for  hating — well  I'm  one  of  the  for- 
giving sort,  you  know.  Besides,  there's  nothing  made  by 
turning  informer,  and  there  is  something  to  be  made,  you 
say,  by  keeping  mum.  Now  suppose  you  go  back  to  the 
house,  and  her,  she's  pining  for  you,  no  doubt,  and  tell 
her  you're  off  to-morrow.  I'll  call  for  you  with  a  light 
wagon  about  noon.     Until  then  good-day  to  you." 

Thorndyke  seized  his  hand  and  shook  it. 

"  I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you,  Liston !  You're  the 
prince  of  good  fellows.  And  I  haven't  deserved  it-^I 
know  that."  ;;3  ;  h-.i  y_ 

He  strode  away.  If  he  could  only  have  seen  the  look 
''  the  prince  of  good  fellows  "  cast  after  him  1 

"  '  You  don't  know  how  to  thank  me,' "  he  thought, 
with  sneering  scorn.  "  You  fool  I  You  blind,  conceited, 
besotted  fool  I  '  When  I  recall  Lucy  West  you  wonder  I 
don't  hate  you  I '  Was  there  ever  a  time,  my  perfumed 
coxcomb,  when  I  did  not  hate  you  ?  And  you'll  reward  me, 
will  you  ?  Yes,  I  swear  you  shall,  but  not  in  that  way. 
Poor  little  girl  1  how  young  she  is,  how  pretty,  and  how  in- 
nocent. She  has  had  her  fool's  paradise  for  three  weeks 
—it  ends  to-day."    - 


6 


MMMf 


^fK 


y 


CHAPTER  XI. 


GONE. 


AURENCE  THORNDYKE  strode  rapidly 
back  OTcr  the  sands  to  where  Norine  stood. 
She  had  not  gone  into  the  house,  she  was 
leaning  against  a  green  mound,  her  hands 
hanging  listlessly  before  her,  the  white,  startled  change  on 
her  face  still.  Laurence  was  going  away— in  an  aimless 
sort  of  manner  she  kept  repeating  these  words  over  anil 
over,  Laurence  was  going  away  I 

"  I've  made  a  devil  of  a  mess  of  it,"  thought  Mr.  Thorn- 
dyke,  gnawing  his  mustache  with  gloomy  ferocity.  "  What 
an  unmitigated  ass  I  have  been  in  this  business  !  Liston's 
right — a  mock  marriage  is  no  joke.  I  can  make  my  es- 
cape from  her  now,  but  the  truth's  got  to  be  told,  and  that 
soon.  And  what  is  to  hinder  her  taking  her  revenge  and 
blowing  me  sky-high,  as  I  deserve  ?  One  whisper  of  this 
affair,  and  Darcy  disinherits  me,  Helen  jilts  me,  and  then 
— ^good  Heaven  above  !  what  a  fool  I  have  been." 

Yes,  Mr.  Thorndyke  had  been  a  fool,  and  was  repenting 
in  sackcloth  and  ashes.  To  gratify  a  passing  fancy  for  a 
pretty  face  may  be  a  very  pleasing  thing — to  take  revenge 
upon  a  man  who  has  interfered  with  one's  little  plans,  may 
also  be  a  pleasing  thing,  but  to  cut  off  one's  own  nose 
to  spite  one's  own  face,  i-^  something  one  is  apt  to  regret 
afterwards.  It  was  Mr.  Thorndyke's  case.  He  had  taken 
Richard  Gilbert's  bride  from  him  at  the  very  altar,  as  one 


i 


I 


GONE. 


123 


may  sny,  and  he  had  gloated  over  his  vengeance,  but  what 
was  to  hinder  Norine  Hourdon  from  rising,  strong  in  her 
wrongs  and  betrayal,  and  ruining  him  for  life  ?  She  was 
the  gentlest,  the  most  yielding  of  human  beings  now,  and 
she  loved  him  ;  but  is  it  not  those  whom  we  have  once 
loved  best,  we  learn  afterwards  to  hate  most  bitterly  ?  He 
had  cruelly,  shamefully  wronged  and  deceived  her — what 
right  had  he  to  look  for  mercy  in  return  ?  As  he  had  sown, 
so  must  he  reap. 

She  scarcely  turned  at  his  approach.  How  pale  she  was, 
and  the  large  dark  eyes  she  lifted  were  full  of  a  child's 
startled  terror. 

"  Norine,"  he  abruptly  began,  "  there  is  no  help  for  it — 
I  must  go  to  New  York  to-morrow." 

Her  lips  trembled  a  little. 

"To-morrow,"  she  repeated,  under  her  breath  —  "so 
soon  I " 

"  Rather  short  notice,  I  admit,  but  then  you  see  it — it  isn't 
for  a  lifetime.  All  husbands  and  wives  part  once  in  a  while 
and  survive  it.  Come,  Norine,"  with  irritated  impatience, 
"  don't  wear  that  woe-begone  face  I  I'm  not  to  blame,  I 
can't  help  it.  You  don't  srppose  I  want  to  leave  you.  But 
here's  Liston — my  uncle's  man.  You  heard  him  yourself. 
You  saw  the  letter  commanding  my  return." 

"  The  letter,"  she  repeated,  looking  at  him  ;  "  there  were 
two  1" 

"  Ah — ^yes — two,  so  there  were.  But  the  other  was 
merely  a  note  from  a  friend.  I  leave  at  noon  to-morrow, 
so  see  that  my  valise  is  packed,  and  everything  all  right, 
that's  a  good  child.  And  do  try  to  get  rid  of  that  white, 
reproachful  face,  unless  you  want  it  to  haunt  me  like  the 
face  of  a  ghost." 


-^-'M-.. 


m 


{^iiMj>^.kwiife>yi»«b>M.>#«&^vu.'j^.fe-^gife~t.<y^^ 


-areOf^im^^S^!^' 


V 


124 


NORixi-ys  Ri:rr:xGr.. 


He  spoke  with  irritated  petulance — at  war  with  her,  with 
himself,  and  his  smoulderiiifi;  ill  temper  l)reakiiig  forth.  It 
was  the  first  time  he  had  ever  spoken  sharply  to  her.  A 
faint  Hush  rose  to  her  checks.  She  clasped  both  hands 
nround  his  arm  and  looked  up  in  his  moody,  discontented 
face  with  piteous  imploring  eyes. 

"  Don't  be  vexed,  Laurence ;  I  don't  mean  to  reproach 
you,  indeed,  and  I  know  you  cannot  help  it.  Only,  dear,  I 
1  JVC  you  so  much,  and — and  it  is  our  first  parting,  and  I 
!iave  been  so  happy  here — so  happy  here — " 

For  a  minute  her  voice  broke,  and  she  laid  her  face 
against  his  shoulder. 

Mr.  Thorndyke  smothered  a  suppressed  groan. 

"O  Jupiter!  here  it  is  I  Tears,  and  scenes  and  hys- 
terics. I  knew  how  it  would  be,  they  all  will  do  it, 
every  chance.  Norine  I" — aloud  and  still  impatient — "  for 
pity's  sake,  don't  cry — it's  something  I  can't  stand.  Here ! 
I'll  throw  my  uncle,  his  fortune  and  favor,  and  all  the  hopes 
and  ambitions  of  my  life  to  the  winds,  and  stay  here,  and 
bill  and  coo,  all  the  rest  of  my  life.  If  I  can't  go  in  peace  I 
won't  go  at  all." 

She  lifted  her  head  as  if  he  had  struck  her.  Something 
in  his  tone,  in  his  words,  in  his  face,  dried  her  tears  effect- 
ually, iit  once  and  forever. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Laurence,"  she  said,  suddenly,  in  an 
altered  voice.  "I  won't  cry  any  more.  Shall  I  go  and 
pack  your  valise  now  or  leave  it  until  to-morrow  morning  ? " 

He  glanced  at  her  uneasily.  The  dark,  soft  eyes  looked 
far  away  seaward,  the  delicate  lips  had  ceased  to  tremble, 
the  small  handsome  face  had  grown  resvylulely  still.  What 
manner  of  woman,  he  wondered,  was  this  girl  going  to 
make? 


1 


coxii. 


125 


"  Norinc !    You  arc  not  ofTciulod  ? " 

"OfTcndcd — with  you,  Laurence?  No,  that  is  not  pes- 
sible." 

"  You  love  mc  so  much,  Norine  ? " 

"  I  have  given  you  proof  whether  I  love  you  or  no.  I 
am  your  wife." 

"  Yes,  of  course,  of  course  I  "  hastily  ;  "  but  Norine — see 
here — suppose  in  the  future  I  did  some  great  wrong — de- 
serted you  for  instance — no,  no  I  don't  look  at  me  like  that 
— this  is  only  a  suppositious  case,  you  know  1 " 

The  large  dark  eyes  were  fixed  full  upon  him.  He 
laughed  in  rather  a  Hurried  way,  and  his  own  shifted  and 
fell. 

"  Go  on,"  she  said. 
(  "  Suppose  I  deserted  you,  and  it  was  in  your  power  to  take 
revenge,  you  would  hate  me  and  take  it — would  you  not  ?" 

Into  the  dark,  tender  eyes  there  leaped  a  light — into 
the  youthful,  gentle  face  there  came  a  glow — around  the 
soft-cut,  child-like  mouth  there  settled  an  expression  entire- 
ly new  to  Laurence  Thorndyke.  One  little  hand  clenched 
unconsciously — she  caught  her  breath  for  a  second,  hard. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  would  !  " 

The  answer  staggered  him  —  literally  and  tnily  stag- 
gered him.  He  had  not  expected  it — he  had  looked  for 
some  outbreak  of  love,  some  tender,  passionate  protest. 

"  Norine  !  "  he  cried,  "  you  would  !  Do  you  know  what 
you  are  saying?  You  would  hate  me,  and  ruin  me  for  life, 
if  you  could  ? " 

She  looked  at  him  full. 

"  If  you  deserted  me,  would  you  not  hate  me  ?  Would  I 
not  be  ruined  for  life  ?  And  does  not  the  Book  of  books 
say :     "  An  eye  for  an  eye,  a  tooth  for  a  tooth,  a  life  for 


^^^ 


120 


A'CA'/AVi'.V  AVi  VENGE. 


a  life.  Yos,  Laurence— if  I  did  not  go  m.id  and  die,  I 
would  hale  you  more  then  1  love  you  now,  and  be  revenged 
if  I  could  I  " 

Then  there  was  a  silence.  He  had  grown  pale  as  her- 
self, and  stood  quite  motionless  looking  at  the  sea.  He 
knew  what  he  had  to  expect  at  last. 

Norine  was  still  clinging  to  his  arm.  He  disengaged  it 
abruptly,  and  without  a  word  or  look,  walked  away  from 
her.  A  moment  she  stood — then  two  little  hands  clasped 
the  arm  once  more,  a  pleading  voice  spoke,  and  the  sweet, 
tender  face  of  Norine  looked  imploringly  up  at  him. 

"  Laurence — dearest  Laurence  I  I  have  angered  you 
again.  But  you  asked  me  a  question  and  I  had  to  answer 
it.     I'orgive  me." 

He  turned  away  from  her  resolutely. 
"  There  is  no  forgiveness  needed,  Norine.  I  admire 
your  truthful  and  plain-spoken  spirit.  Only  you  see  I 
thought  Norine  Bourdon  a  loving,  gentle,  forgiving  little 
soul,  who  care  J  for  me  so  much  that  she  was  ready  to  for- 
give me  seventy-times-seven,  and  I  find,  according  to  her 
own  showing,  she  is  a  strong-minded  woman,  ready  to 
wreak  vengeance  for  the  first  wrong  done  her — ready  for 
love  or  hatred  at  a  moment's  notice.  It  is  well  you  told  me 
— it  is  always  best  to  understand  one  another.  No,  we 
won't  have  any  tender  scenes,  if  you  please,  Mrs.  Laurence 
— I  have  found  out  exactly  what  they  are  worth."  He 
pulled  out  his  watch.  "  I  have  business  over  in  Boston, 
and  as  it  is  growing  late  I  will  be  off  at  once.  If  I  am  very 
late — as  is  likely — I  must  beg  you  will  not  sit  up  for  me. 
Good-afternoon." 

He  lifted  his  hat  ceremoniously,  as  to  an  indifferent  ac- 
quaintance, and  walked  deliberately  away. 


-^ 


*«  •UWVM^^IiAl'Ul'M' 


cchv/-:. 


127 


-^ 


She  stood  slock  still  where  he  had  left  her,  and  watched 
the  tall,  active  figure  out  of  sight.  Then  she  sat  down, 
feeling  suddenly  weak  and  faint,  and  lay  l)ack  against  the 
green  mound.  For  a  moment  sea,  and  sky,  and  sands 
swam  before  her  in  a  hot  mist,  and  then  the.'aini  less  pass- 
ed away,  leaving  her  tearless  and  trembling. 

What  did  he  mean? 

He  had  talked  of  deserting  her.>  Did  he  mean  it?  A 
liand  of  ice  seemed  to  clutch  her  heart  at  the  thought.  No, 
no,  no  I  he  had  only  been  trying  her — proving  what  her 
love  was  worth.  And  she  had  answered  him  like  that 
she  would  hate  him  and  be  revenged.  He  had  called  her 
a  "  strong-minded  woman," — a  term  of  bitter  reproach — 
and  no  wonder.  No  wonder  he  was  angry,  hurt,  outraged. 
Why  had  she  said  such  a  horrible  thing  ?  She  hardly 
knew  herself — the  words  seemed  to  have  come  to  her  in- 
stinctively. Were  they  true  ?  She  did  know  that  either 
— ^just  now  she  knew  nothing  but  that  Laurence  had  left 
her  in  anger  for  the  first  time,  that  he  would  probably  not 
return  until  to-morrow  morning,  the  fateful  to-morrow 
that  was  to  take  him  from  her  for — how  long  ? 

She  broke  down  then,  and  laying  her  face  against  the 
soft,  cool  grass,  gave  way  to  a  storm  of  impassioned  weep- 
ing, that  shook  her  like  a  reed.  "  The  strong-minded  wo- 
man "  was  gone,  and  only  a  child  that  had  done  wrong  and  is 
sorry — a  weak  girl  weeping  for  her  lost  lover,  remained. 

The  afternoon  waned,  the  twilight  fell,  the  wind  arose 
chilly  from  the  sea.  And  pallid  as  a  spirit,  shivering  in 
the  damp  air,  silent  and  spiritless,  the  younger  Miss  Wad- 
dle found  her  when  she  came  to  call  her  in  to  supper. 

She  drank  her  tea  thirstily,  but  she  could  eat  nothing. 
Immediately  tvfter  the  lonely  meal,  she  hastened  to  her 


128 


A'OR INK'S  REVEXGE. 


room,  and  throwing  a  shawl  around  her,  sat  down  in  the 
easy  chair  by  the  window  to  watch  and  wait.  He  had 
told  her  not  to  sit  up  for  him— it  would  annoy  him  proba- 
bly to  be  disobeyed,  but  she  could  not  go  to  bed,  for  in  the 
darkness  and  the  quiet,  lying  do\.M,  she  knew  how  she 
would  toss  wakefully  about  until  she  had  thought  herself 
into  a  fever. 

Night  fell.  Outside  the  sea  spread  black,  away  until  it 
melted  into  the  blacker  sky.  The  wind  sighed  fitfully, 
tlie  stars  shone  frostily  bright.  Inside,  the  little  piano  in 
the  parlor,  played  upon  by  the  elder  Miss  Waddle,  after  her 
day's  teaching,  made  merry  music.  In  the  intervals,  when 
it  was  silent,  the  younger  Miss  Waddle  read  chapters  aloud 
from  her  latest  novel.  Ten,  eleven  struck,  then  the  parlor 
lights  went  out,  doors  were  locked,  and  the  Misses  Waddle 
went  up  stairs  to  their  maiden  slumbers. 

The  pale  'lUle  watcher  by  the  window  sat  on,  hoping 
against  hope.  He  might  come,  and  be  it  late  or  early  she 
must  be  awake  and  waiting,  to  throw  herself  into  his 
manly  arms  and  implore  his  lordly  pardon.  She  could 
never  sleep  more  until  si  e  had  sobbed  out  her  penitence 
and  been  forgiven.  But  the  long,  dark,  dragging,  lone- 
ly hours  wore  on.  One,  two,  three,  four,  and  the  little, 
white,  sad  face  lay  against  the  cold  glass,  the  dark, 
mournful  eyes  strained  themselves  through  the  murky 
gloom  to  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  their  idol.  Five  ! 
the  cold  gray  dawn  of  another  day  crept  over  sea  and 
woodland,  and  worn  out  with  watching,  chilled  to  the  bone, 
the  child's  head  fell  back,  the  heavy  eyelids  swayed  and 
drooped,  and  she  lay  still. 

So,  when  two  hours  later  Mr.  Laurence  Thorndyke, 
smelling  stronger  than  ever  of  cigars  and  brandy,  as  the 


I 


t 


,  * 


GONE. 


129 


younger  Miss  Waddle's  disgusted  nose  testified,  came  into 
the  silent  chamber,  he  found  her.  The  pretty  head,  with 
all  its  dark,  rippling  ringlets,  lay  against  the  back  of  the 
chair,  the  small  face  looked  deathly  in  its  spent  sleep. 
She  had  watched  and  waited  for  him  here  all  night.  And 
remembering  how,  over  the  card  table  and  the  wine  bottle, 
his  night  had  been  passed,  utterly  forgetful  of  her,  the 
first  pang  of  real  unselfish  remorse  this  young  gentleman 
had  ever  felt,  came  to  him  then. 

"  Poor  little  heart  1 "  he  thought ;  "  poor  little,  pretty 
Norine.  I  wish  to  Heaven  I  had  never  heard  of  Gilbert's 
projected  marriage— I  wish  I  had  never  gone  back  to  Kent 
P\arm." 

Five  hours  later,  and  white  and  tearless,  Norine  is  cling- 
ing to  him  in  the  speechless  pain  of  parting.  T<!  there 
some  presentiment,  that  she  herself  cannot  understand, 
even  now  in  her  heart,  that  it  is  forever  ? 

"  XyQn\— don't  look  so  white  and  wild,  Norry  ? "  he  is  say- 
ing hurriedly.  "  I  wish,  I  wish  I  need  not  leave  you. 
Little  one— little  Norry,  whatever  happens,  you— you'll 
try  and  forgive  me,  won't  you  ?    Don't  hate  me  if  you  can 

help  it." 

She  does  not  understand  him— she  just  clings  to  him,  as 
thoujjh  death  were  easier  than  to  let  him  go. 

"  Time's  up,  Mr.  Laurence  I "  calls  out  the  sharp  voice 
of  little  Mr.  Liston,  sitting  in  the  light  wagon  at  the  door ; 
"  if  you  linger  five  minutes  more  we'll  lose  our  train." 

"  Good  by,  Norine — good  by  1 " 

Ke  is  glad  to  be  called,  glad  to  break  away  from  the 
gentle  arms  that  would  hold  him  there  forever.  He  kiss- 
es her  hurriedly,  frees  himself  from  her  clasp,  and  leaves  her 
standing  stricken  and  speechless  in  the  middle  of  the  floor. 

6* 


130 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


"Thank  Heaven  that's  over !  "  he  says,  almost  savagely  ; 
"  drive  like  the  devil,  Liston !  I  won't  breath  freely  until  I 
am  out  of  sight  of  the  house." 

Mr.  Liston  obeys. 

She  stands  where  he  has  left  her,  rigid,  tearless,  white, 
listening  to  the  rapid  roll  of  the  wheels  over  the  gravel, 
over  the  road,  growing  faint  and  fainter,  and  dying  out  far 
off.  Then  she  sinks  down,  and  she  and  her  lover  have 
parted  forever. 


;' 


CHAPTER  XII. 


THE  TRUTH. 

BLEAK  autumnal  afternoon,  a  gr.iy,  fast-drift- 
ing sky  overhead,  a  raw  wind  sweeping  up  from 
the  shore,  the  sea  itself  all  blurred  and  blotted 
out  in  the  chilly,  creeping  fog.  At  the  parlor- 
window  of  Sea  View  Cottage,  Norine  stands  looking  wist- 
fully, wearily  out.  Three  weeks  have  passed  since  her  hus- 
band left  her — it  is  seven  weeks  altogether  since  the  memor 
able  night  of  her  elopement.  These  last  three,  lonely  weeks 
have  wrought  their  sad,  inevitable  change.  The  small 
face  has  grown  smaller,  the  large  dark  eyes  seem  unnatur- 
ally large  for  the  wan  face.  A  sad,  patient  light  fills  them. 
The  slight  form  has  grown  fragile,  the  hands  that  hang 
loosely  clasped  before  her  are  almost  transparent.  As  she 
stands  here  watching,  waiting,  she  slips,  unconsciously,  her 
wedding  ring  up  and  down  her  finger.  So  thin  that  fin- 
ger has  grown  that  every  now  and  then  the  ring  drops 
loosely  off  altogether.  Within,  it  is  pleasant  enough.  A 
fire  burns  brightly  in  the  grate,  Miss  Waddle's  canaries 
bask  in  the  heat,  singing  blithely,  and  the  younger  Miss 
Waddle  sits  at  her  desk  immersed  as  usual,  fathoms  deep 
in  ink,  and  romance.  The  inspiration  of  genius  is  evident- 
ly strong  upon  the  younger  Miss  Waddle  this  afternoon, 
for  her  pen  rushes  madly  along  the  paper,  her  hair  is  un- 


n,2 


NURTA'irS  REVENGE. 


combed  and  twisted  in  a  tight  knot  at  the  back  of  her 
head.  Profound  stillness  reigns,  the  ticking  of  the  clock, 
the  purring  of  puss  on  the  rug,  the  chirping  of  the  canaries, 
tlie  light  fall  of  the  cinders,  the  sighing  of  the  fitful  wind, 
and  the  monotonous  scrape,  scrape,  scrape,  of  the  literary 
lady's  pen — that  is  all. 

At  last — 

"  There  I "  cries  the  younger  Miss  Waddle,  drawing  a 
deep,  intense  breath  of  relief,  "  I've  done  with  you  for  one 
day!  Let  the  printer's  devil  come  when  he  likes,  I'm 
ready  for  him." 

She  nods  at  the  blotted  and  scratched  pile  of  MSS. 
wipes  her  pen  in  her  hair,  falls  b-ick  in  her  chair,  and 
looks  at  the  clock. 

"  Half-past  five,  as  I'm  a  sinner,  and  the  kitchen  fire 
not  lit  yet.  'Lizabeth  will  be  home  to  her  tea  at  six,  as 
hungry  as  a  bear.  A  minute  ago  I  was  writing  up  the 
sayings  and  doings  of  dukes  and  duchesses,  now  I  must 
go  and  kindle  the  kitchen  stove.  Such  is  life — with 
authoresses,  but  a  step  from  the  sublime  to  the  ridiculous. 
Mrs.  Laurence,  my  dear  child,  it's  of  no  use  your  strain- 
ing the  eyes  out  of  your  head.  Whether  there's  a  letter  for 
you  or  not,  my  sister  won't  be  here  with  it  for  the  next 
half  hour." 

Norine  clasped  her  hands. 

"  Oh ! "  she  said,  "  surely,  there  will  be  a  letter  for  me 
today." 

"  I  hope  so,  I'm  sure.  It's  uncommonly  odd  Mr. 
Laurence  doesn't  write,  but  then,  as  a  rule,  I  believe  men 
hate  letter  writing.  Maybe  he's  on  his  way  here  and 
doesn't  think  it  worth  while — it  will  come  out  all  right, 
depend  upon  it.     So  cheer  up,  Mrs.  Laurence,  my  deari 


/ 


F 


^ 


THE    TRUTH. 


'33 


and  don't  wear  that  woful  face.  You've  grown  as  thin  as 
a  shadow  during  the  last  two  weeks.  You  must  take  care 
or  your  handsome  husband  will  be  disenchanted  when  he 
sees  that  pallid  countenance.  Tell  you  what,  Mrs.  Laurence, 
you  ought  to  have  something  to  do." 

"Something  to  do?"  Norine  said  faintly. 

"  Something  to  do,  my  dear — sewing,  drawing,  playing, 
reading,  writing — anything  but  moping  about  this  wa}  — 
waiting,  waiting,  waiting,  and  getting  the  horrors.  It 
dosen't  fetch  him  any  the  sooner,  nor  a  letter  from  him 
either,  and  it  is  just  killing  you  by  inches.  What  a  pity 
now,"  said  the  younger  Miss  Waddle,  gathering  up  her 
manuscript  in  a  heap,  "  that  you  couldn't  write  a  story. 
You  couldn't,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  I  am  afraid  not,"  Norine  replied,  smiling.  "  I  am  not 
at  all  clever  in  any  way.  I  only  wish  I  could  write  stories 
and  earn  money  as  you  do." 

"  Yes,  it's  very  nice  and  handy,"  said  the  younger  Miss 
Waddle,  "  when  you're  not  '  respectfully  declined.'  /have 
been 'respectfully  declined '  oftener  than  I  like  to  think 
of.  But  I  am  going  to  make  a  hit  this  time,  if  I  die  for 
it." 

"  Yes,"  said  Norine,  gazing  in  respectful  awe  at  the 
smeary  looking  pile  of  writing;  "what  do  you  call  it  ?  " 

"  This,"  said  the  authoress,  slapping  her  hand  on  the 
heap,  "  is  my  first  novel,  to  run  in  serial  form  in  the  Flag 
of  the  Free.  Its  name  is  the  '  Demon  Dentist ;  or  the 
Mystery  of  the  Double  Tooth ! '  What  do  you  think  of 
that?" 

"The  Demon — what?"  asked  Mrs.  Laurence,  rather 
aghast. 

"  *  The  Demon  Dentist'    The  title  is  rather  a  striking 


134 


NOR/NE'S  PEVENGE. 


one,  I  think,  and  Sir  Walter  Scott  says  a  good  name  is  half 
the  battle.  And,  I  flatter  myself,  the  plot  is  as  original  as 
the  title.  Lord  Racer,  only  son  of  the  Earl  of  Greenturf, 
the  hero  of  the  story,  steals  the  Lemon  stone,  the  magnifi- 
cient  family  diamond,  and  hides  it — where  do  you  think  ? 
Why  he  goes  to  the  Demon  Dentist,  gets  his  wisdom  tooth 
excavated,  buries  it  in  the  cavernous  depths  of  the  molar, 
has  it  cemented  up  again,  and  there  it  is  1  Search  is  made, 
but  no  one  thinks  of  looking  in  Lord  Racer's  lower  jaw, 
of  course.  Wilkie  Collins  has  written  a  novel  about  a 
man  who  steals  a  diamond  in  his  sleep,  but  I  rather  think 
my  idea  is  a  step  ahead  of  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins.  Finally 
the  Demon  Dentist  murders  Lord — oh  gracious,  me  I 
here's  'Lizabeth,  and  tea  not  ready." 

Miss  Waddle  the  younger  jumped  up  in  consternation^ 
scuttled  the  ^^  Demon  Dentist,'^  headforemost,  into  her 
desk,  and  made  a  rush  for  the  kitchen,  as  Miss  Waddle 
the  elder  opened  the  parlor  door. 

Norine  took  a  step  forward,  her  face  flushing,  her  eyes 
kindling  with  eager  hope,  her  breath  coming  quick.  She 
did  not  speak  a  word,  and  one  glance  into  Miss  Waddle's 
pitying  face  answered  that  breathless  look. 

"  No  letter  yet,  Mrs.  Laurence,"  she  said  very  gently. 
"  I  waited  for  the  mail." 

She  did  not  speak  a  word.  She  sat  down  suddenly, 
sick — sick  to  the  very  heart  with  the  bitter  sense  of  the 
disappointment.  The  flush  faded  from  her  face,  the  light 
from  her  eyes  ;  she  drew  a  long,  dry,  sobbing  breath,  folded 
her  arms  on  the  table  and  laid  her  face  upon  them. 

"Poor  little  soul!"  thought  the  elder  Miss  Waddle, 
looking  at  her  in  silent  compassion.  "  What  brutes  men 
are." 


THE  TRUTH. 


135 


Miss  Waddle's  experience  of  the  nobler  sex  was  limited, 
but  her  sentiment  in  the  main  was  a  correct  one.  It  was 
peculiarly  correct  in  the  present  instance,  for  since  that 
morning  three  weeks  ago,  when  Laurence  Thomdyke  had 
left  Sea  View  Cottage,  not  a  word,  not  a  message,  not  a 
letter  had  come  from  him.  How  the  lonely,  longing  girl, 
left  in  the  dull  little  house,  watched  and  waited,  and 
prayed,  and  grew  sick  to  the  soul,  as  now,  with  disappoint- 
ment, only  those  who  have  watched  and  waited  in  vain,  for 
the  one  they  love  best  on  earth,  can  know. 

Was  he  sick— was  he  dead— v.  as  he  faithless.  Why, 
why,  why  did  he  not  write? 

They  were  the  two  questions  that  never  left  the  girl's 
mind.  She  lost  the  power  to  sleep  or  eat,  a  restless  fever 
held  her.  She  spent  her  days,  the  long,  vapid,  sickening 
days,  gazing  down  the  road  he  must  come,  the  nights 
in  wakeful,  frightened  thought.  The  one  event  of  the 
twenty-four  dreary  hours,  was  the  coming  home  of  the  elder 
Miss  Waddle  from  Chelsea;  the  one  hope  that  upheld  her, 
the  hope  that  each  day  she  would  bring  her  a  letter.  All 
this  long,  bleak  day  she  had  lived  on  that  one  feverish 
hope,  and  now  she  was  here,  and  there  was  none — none  ! 

The  moments  wore  on.  She  lay  there  prostrate,  crushed, 
never  moving  or  lifting  her  head.  Miss  Waddle  the  elder 
bent  over  her  with  tears  of  compassion  and  indignation 
in  her  kindly,  spinster  eyes. 

"  Dear  child, "  she  said,  "  don't  take  on  like  this. 
Who  knows  what  to-morrow  may  bring  ?  And  if  it  brings 
nothing,  there  isn't  a  man  on  earth  worth  breaking  your 
poor  heart  for,  as  you're  doing.  They're  a  set  of  selfish, 
heartless  wretches,  every  one— every  blessed  one  !  "  said 
the  elder  Miss  Waddle,  vindictively ;  "  so  come  along  and 


136 


A'0/n/A'E's  heikxgi-:. 


have  a  cup  of  tea,  and  don't  pine  yourself  to  death  for  him. 
I  daresay,  if  the  truth  were  known,  he's  not  pining  much 
for  you.  " 

Norinc  lifted  her  face — such  a  sad,  pathetic,  patient  little 
face. 

"  Don't,  Miss  Waddle,"  she  said,  "  you  mean  well,  I  am 
sure,  but  I  can't  bear  it.  He  does  not  intend  to  forget  or 
neglect  me.  He  is  ill— I  know  that.  He  is  ill,  and  I 
don't  know  where  he  is,  or  how  to  go  to  him.  No, 
I  don't  wish  any  tea,  a  mouthful  of  food  would  choke  me, 
I  think.  I  will  go  down  to  the  beach  instead.  I — I  would 
rather  be  alone." 

The  gentle  lips  quivered,  the  gentle  voice  trembled 
over  the  loyal,  wifely  words.  Not  neglectful,  not  faith- 
less, only  ill,  and  unable  to  write  —  she  crushed  every 
other  thought  out  of  her  heart  but  that.  She  rose,  took 
her  hat,  and  quitted  the  room.  Miss  Waddle  looked  after 
her,  and  shook  her  head  dismally. 

"  Poor  dear !  "  she  thought,  "  only  ill,  indeed  I  Mr. 
Laurence,  if  that  be  his  name,  is  a  very  good-looking 
young  man,  and  there,  it's  my  opinion,  the  young  man's 
goodness  begins  and  ends.  He  may  not  have  deserted 
her,  but  it  looks  uncommonly  like  il.  Why,  he  was  tired 
of  her  before  they  were  here  a  week." 

Then  Miss  Waddle,  the  elder,  went  and  took  "  tired 
Nature's  sweet  restorer,  balmy" — tea,  and  Mrs.  Laurence, 
with  all  hope  and  life  crushed  out  of  her  fair  young  face, 
went  down  along  the  sands,  where  so  often  in  the  first  happy 
days  they  had  wandered  together.  Only  seven  weeks  ago 
since  she  had  left  all  for  him — friends,  home,  lover,  truth 
and  honor — why,  it  seemed  years  to  look  back  upon.  She 
felt  old  and  worn   and  tired — a  horrible   creeping  fear 


f- 


THE    TRUTH. 


m 


clutched  her  heart.    Why  did  he  not  write— why  did  he 
not  come  ? 

She  reached  the  little  grassy  hillock  and  sat  down,  too 
weak  and  spiritless,  even  to  walk  on.  Cold  and  gray,  the 
twiligiit  was  falling,  cold  and  gray  spread  the  low  lying 
twilight  sky,  cold  and  gray  the  dim  sea  melted  into  it  in 
the  distance,  cold  and  gray  like  her  life.  It  was  very 
lonely,  no  human  being  besides  herself  was  so  be  seen, 
not  even  a  sea  bird  skinuned  the  sullen  waters.  With 
her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  her  sad,  yearning  eyes  fixed 
on  the  dreary  sea,  she  sat  still,  thinking,  thinking.  Why 
did  he  not  write — why  did  he  not  come  ? 

Suddenly,  coming  as  if  from  the  cottage,  a  figure 
appeared  in  view,  the  solitary  figure  of  a  man,  moving 
rapidly  toward  her  over  the  sands.  She  looked  up  quickly, 
uttered  a  faint  cry  of  recognition  and  hope.  As  he  had 
come  abruptly  upon  them  (  nee  before,  Mr.  Liston  came 
abruptly  upon  her  .igain.  'i'hen  it  had  been  to  bear  her 
darling  away  from  her — nr  w  it  was  to  bring  her  news  of 
him,  she  knew. 

She  did  not  rise  to  meet  him.  Her  heart  beat  so  fast 
with  alternate  hope  and  fear  that  for  an  instant  she  turned 
faint.    In  that  instant  he  was  beside  her.    He  lifted  his  hat. 

"  Mrs.  Laurence  ? "  he  said,  interrogatively,  "  they  told 
me  at  the  house  I  should  find  you  here.  They  wished  to 
call  you  in,  but  this  is  a  better  place  for  our  meeting,  so  I 
sought  you  out." 

She  made  a  breathless,  impatient  gesture. 

"  You  have  a  letter  for  me  ? "  she  said,  hurriedly ;  "  he 
sent  you — he  is  well  ?  " 

"  He  sent  me— yes.  And  he  is  wjil — oh,  yes.  I  have 
a  note  for  you,  too,  from  him,  but  I  will  not  show  it  to  you 


138 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


just  yet,  if  you  will  allow  me.  My  dear  young  lady,  I  have 
come — he  has  sent  me  on  a  very  hard  and  embarrassing 
errand,  indeed." 

Something  in  the  man's  face,  in  the  man's  tone,  even 
more  than  his  words,  made  her  look  quickly  up.  To  his 
dying  day,  James  Liston  never  forgot  the  haunted,  terrified 
look  in  those  dilating,  dark  eyes.  She  laid  her  hand 
over  her  fast  beating  heart,  and  spoke  with  a  '  eflort. 

"  He  is  well,  you  say  ?  "  she  panted. 

*'  He  is  well,  Mrs.  Laurence.  It  were  better  for  you  ho 
were  dead." 

"  Sir  ! "  she  cried,  the  light  leaping  to  her  eyes,  the 
flush  to  her  face  ;  "  how  dare  you  1  He  is  my  husband — 
how  dare  you  say  such  a  thing  to  me  1  " 

"  He  is  not  your  husband," 

The  low,  level,  monotonous  voice  spoke  the  dreadful 
words,  the  small,  light,  glimmering  eyes  were  fixed  im- 
movably upon  her  with  a  look,  half-contemptuous,  half-com- 
passionate, in  their  depths. 

She  rose  slowly  to  her  feet,  and  stood  blankly  staring  at 
him.    Was  the  man  mad  ? 

"  Not  my — "  she  paused  irresolute.  Should  she  run 
away  from  this  madman  or  stand  her  ground.  "  Give  me 
my  letter  1 "  she  said,  angrily ;  "  I  have  nothing  more  to 
say  to  you  I " 

"  Because  I  tell  you  Laurence  Thorndyke  is  not  your 
husband  ?    My  child,  it  is  true." 

His  tone  was  solemn— his  face  full  of  compassion. 
What  a  child  she  was,  he  was  thinking ;  how  she  loved 
him.  What  was  there  about  this  young  fellow  that  women 
should  give  up  all  that  made  their  lives  most  dear,  for 
his  sake  ? 


■A 


1 


THE  TRUTH. 


'39 


1 


"  I  told  you,  Mrs.  Liiurenco,  I  have  been  sent  here  on  a 
hard  and  painful  errand.  He  sent  me.  '  Conscience 
makes  cowards  of  us  all.'  He  is  a  coward  as  well  as  a 
villain,  and  he  had  not  the  courage  to  face  you  himself.  You 
have  been  watching  and  waiting  for  his  return,  I  know. 
Watch  and  wait  no  longer;  you  will  never  see  Laurence 
Thorndyke  again." 

A  cry  broke  from  her  lips — a  cry  that  rang  in  his  ears  his 
life  long — a  cry  not  loud,  but  exceedingly  bitter. 

"  In  Heaven's  name,  speak  and  tell  me  what  is  it  you 
mean  ? " 

"  This :  You  are  not  a  wife — Laurence  Thorndyke  never 
married  you.  He  deceived  and  betrayed  you  from  the  first ; 
he  has  deserted  you  forever  at  the  last.  That  is  the  task 
he  has  set  me.  I  am  but  a  poor  diplomat  to  break  bad 
news,  as  they  call  it,  to  any  one,  so  I  blurl  '.at  the  truth  at 
once.  After  all,  it  is  the  same  in  the  end.  He  never  meant 
to  marry  you — he  never  cared  for  you  enough.  He  hated 
Richard  Gilbert — that  was  the  beginning  and  end  of  it.  He 
hated  Gilbert,  Gilbert  loved  you,  and  was  about  to  make 
you  his  wife  ;  to  revenge  himself  on  Gilbert,  he  went  back 
to  Kent  Hill  and  carried  you  off.  He  knew  you  loved  him, 
and  it  would  not  be  a  difficult  task.  It  seems  easy  enough 
for  all  women  to  love  Laurence  Thorndyke." 

The  last  words,  spoken  more  to  himself  than  to  her, 
were  full  of  bitterness.  A  great  stillness  had  fallen  upon 
her— her  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  face,  her  own  strained  and 
fixed. 

"  Go  on,"  she  said,  her  teeth  set  hard. 

"  He  took  you  away — how,  you  know  best,  and  in  Boston 
that  mockery  of  marriage  was  gone  through.  Miss  Bourdon 
the  man  Maggs  was  an  actor,  not  a  clergyman,  a  besotted 


-:i-X.-_-r  JL.T_^ 


140 


A'OAVAvrs  RrA'i:xaE. 


tirunkarcl,  whom  fifty  dollars  at  any  time  would  buy, 
rotten  body  and  a  iiithy  soul.  '  Slie  is  as  green  as  the 
fields  she  came  from';  that  is  wiiat  I'horndykesaid  to  Maj;;gs, 
'as  innocent  as  her  native  daisies.  She'll  never  know  the 
dilTerence,  but  she's  one  of  the  sort  that  will  love  a  fellow  to 
desperation,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  and  cry  like  a  water- 
spout at  parting,  but  who  won't  listen  to  a  word  without 
her  wedding  ring.  Let  her  have  her  wedding  ring — always 
take  a  short  cut  on  a  journey  if  you  can.'  So  you  got 
your  wedding  ring,  and  without  license  or  witnesses,  and  by 
a  half-drunken  actor  a  sham  ceremony  was  gone  through. 
You  were  married  to  the  scoundrel,  for  the  sake  of  whose 
handsome  f.ace  you  gave  up  home  and  friends,  and  the  love 
.'•nd  honor  of  such  a  man  as  Richard  (Jilbert — one  of  the 
best  and  noblest  men  America  holds  to-day!  " 

The  hand,  pressed  over  her  heart,  clutched  it  tighter,  as 

n  a  spasm  of  uncontrollable  pain. 

"  Go  on,"  she  said  again. 

"  There's  not  much  to  tell.  He  brought  you  here,  and 
in  a  week  was  bored  to  death  and  sick  of  it  all.  He  was 
only  too  glad  of  the  chance  to  go,  and — he  will  never  come 
back.  Here  is  his  note — read  it — here  is  the  money  he 
gave  me,  to  pay  your  board  and  take  you  back  to  your  home 
in  Maine.    He  thinks  it  is  the  best  thing  you  can  do." 

With  all  the  color  stricken  out  of  her  face — dumb,  stilh 
white,  tearless,  and  rigid,  she  had  been  standing  in  her 
awful  despair.  But  at  these  last  words  she  came  back  sud- 
denly as  it  were  from  the  dead. 

"  He  said  t/iat .?"  she  asked  hoarsely.  "  He  told  you  to 
take  me  b.ack  there — like  this  ?  " 

"  He  did." 

"  My  curse  upon  him — my  curse  follow  him  through  life ! " 


f 


THE  TRUTH. 


14! 


The  man  before  her  actually  recoiled,  Sim  hid  iipliftid 
one  arm,  and  in  the  gathering  d.irkness  of  the  night,  slie 
stood  before  him  white  and  terrible.  So,  for  a  sec(jnd — 
then  she  came  back  to  herself,  and  tore  open  the  note 
Only  half  a  dozen  brief  lines — the  Irageilies  of  lite  are 
ever  quickly  written. 

"  Helieve  all  that  Liston  tells  you.  I  have  been  the 
greatest  scoundrel  on  earth  to  you,  my  poor  Norine.  I 
don't  ask  you  to  forgive  me — that  would  not  be  human,  I 
only  ask  you  to  go  and — if  you  can — forget. 

"L.  T." 

No  more.  She  looked  up — out  over  the  creeping  night, 
on  the  sea,  over  the  lonely,  white  sands,  and  stood  fixed 
and  mute.  The  letter  she  had  looked  for,  longed  for, 
prayed  for,  she  had  got  at  last  1 

In  the  dead  stillness  that  followed,  Mr.  Liston  felt  more 
uncomfortable,  perhaps,  then  he  had  ever  felt  before  in  the 
whole  course  of  his  life.    In  sheer  desperation  he  broke  it. 

"You  are  not  angry  with  me,  I  hope,  Mrs.  Laurence  ;  I 
am  but  his  uncle's  servant — when  I  am  ordered  I  must  obey. 
He  was  afraid  to  write  all  this  ;  it  would  be  a  very  damag- 
ing confession  to  put  on  paper,  so  he  sent  me.  You  are 
not  angry  with  me  ?  " 

She  put  her  hand  to  her  head  in  a  lost,  dazed  sort  of  way. 

"  Angry  with  you .'  Oh,  no — why  should  I  be  .'  My 
head  feels  strange — dizzy, — I  don't  want  to  hear  any 
more  to-night.     I  think  I  will  go  home." 

She  turned  slowly.  He  stood  watching  her  with  an  anx- 
ious face.  What  he  knew  would  come,  came.  She  had 
walked  some  dozen  yards,  then  suddenly — without  warn- 
ing, word  or  sound,  she  fell  heavily,  face  downward,  like  a 
stone. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

MR.     LISTON'S    story 

NOTHER  autumnal  twilight,  ghostly  and  gray, 
is  creeping  over  the  Chelsea  shore.  In  her 
pleasant  chamber  in  the  Chelsea  cottage,  Noriiie 
lies  on  her  white  bed  and  looks  out  upon  it. 
Looks  out,  but  sees  nothing.  The  dark,  burning,  brilliant 
eyes  might  be  stone  blind  for  all  they  see  of  the  windy, 
fast  drifting  sky,  of  the  strip  of  wet  and  slippery  sands, 
of  the  white-capped  sea  beyond.  She  might  be  stone 
deaf  for  all  she  hears  of  the  wintry  soughing  of  the  wind,  of 
the  dull,  ceasless  boom  of  the  sea  on  the  shore,  or  the 
light  patter  of  the  chill  rain  on  the  glass.  She  lies  here 
as  she  has  lain  from  the  first — rigid — stricken  soul  and 
body. 

Last  evening,  a  little  later  than  this,  the  Misses  Waddle 
had  spmng  from  their  seats  with  two  shrill  little  shrieks 
at  the  apparition  of  Mr.  Liston  entering  hastily  with  Mrs. 
Laurence  lying  dead  in  his  arms.  Dead  to  all  outward 
semblance,  at  ftrst,  but  when  they  had  placed  her  in  bed, 
and  applied  the  usual  restoratives,  the  eyelids  quivered, 
the  dusk  eyes  opened,  and  with  a  strange,  shuddering  sob, 
she  came  back  to  life.  For  one  instant  she  gazed  up  into 
the  kindly,  anxious  faces  of  the  spinster  sisters  ;  then 
memory  came  back  with  a  rush.  She  was  not  Laurence's 
wife ;  he  had  betrayed  and  cast  her  off ;  she  would  never 


MR.  LISTON'S  STORY. 


143 


•■ 


look  upon  his  face  again  in  this  world.  With  a  low  moan 
of  agony  the  sisters  never  forgot,  she  turned  her  face  to 
the  wall  and  lay  still.     So  she  had  lain  since. 

A  night  and  a  day  had  passed.  She  had  neither  slept 
nor  eaten — she  had  scarcely  moved — she  lay  like  a  stone. 
All  night  long  the  light  had  burned,  all  night  long  the 
sisters  stole  softly  in  and  out,  always  to  find  the  small, 
!  i:^id  figure,  as  they  had  left  it ;  the  white  face  gleaming 
like  marble  in  the  dusk  ;  the  sleepless  black  eyes,  wild 
and  wide.  They  spoke  to  her  in  fear  and  trembling.  She 
did  not  heed,  it  is  doubtful  if  she  heard.  In  a  dull,  dumb 
trance  she  lay,  curiously  conscious  of  the  figures  flitting 
to  and  fro  ;  of  whispered  words  and  frightened  faces  ;  of 
the  beat  of  the  rain  on  the  glass  ;  of  the  black  night  lying 
on  the  black  sea,  her  heart  like  a  stone  in  her  bosom. 
She  was  not  Laurence's  wife — Laurence  had  left  her  for 
ever.  These  two  thoughts  kept  beating,  beating,  in  hearty 
and  brain,  and  soul,  like  the  ceaseless  torment  of  the 
lost. 

The  new  day  came  and  went.  With  it  came  Mr.  Liston 
— pale,  quiet,  anxious.  The  Misses  Waddle,  angry  and 
curious,  at  once  plied  him  with  questions.  What  was  it  all 
about  ?  What  had  he  said  to  Mrs.  Laurence  ?  Where  was 
Mr.  Laurence  ?  Was  it  ill  news  of  him  ?  And  little  Mr. 
Liston,  with  a  face  of  real  pain  and  distress,  had  made 
answer  "  Yes,  it  was  ill  news  of  Mr.  Laurence.  Would 
they  please  not  ask  him  questions  ?  He  couldn't  really 
tjU.  For  Heaven's  sake  let  them  try  and  bring  that  poor 
suffering  child  round.  He  would  pay  every  cent  due 
(hem,  and  take  her  away  the  moment  she  was  able  to 
travel. 

He  sits  in  the  little  parlor  now,  his  head  on  his  hand, 


144 


NOJf/NE'S  REVENGE. 


gazing  out  at  the  gloomy  evening  prospect,  with  a  very 
downcast  and  gloomy  face.  He  is  alone,  a  bit  of  fire 
flickers  and  falls  in  the  grate.  Miss  Waddle  the  elder  is 
not  yet  at  home  from  her  Chelsea  school.  Miss  Waddle 
the  younger,  in  a  glow  of  inky  inspiration,  is  skurrying 
through  a  thrilling  chapter  of  "The  Mystery  of  the 
Double  Tooth,"  and  within  that  inner  room,  at  which  he 
gazes  with  such  troubled  eyes,  "  one  more  unfortunate  " 
lies  battling  with  woman's  utter  despair. 

"Poor  soul,"  Mr.  Liston  says  inwardly.  "Will  she 
perish  as  Lucy  West  perished,  while  he  lives  and  marries, 
is  rich,  courted,  and  happy?  No,  I  will  tell  her  the 
truth  sooner,  that  she  is  his  wife,  that  the  marriage  was 
legal,  though  he  does  not  suspect  it,  and  when  Helen 
Holmes  is  his  wife  she  shall  come  forward  and  convict  him 
of  bigamy,  and  my  lordly  Mr.  Laurence,  how  will  it  be 
with  you  then  !  " 

"  Mr.  Liston." 

He  had  literally  leaped  to  his  feet  with  a  nervous  cry. 
He  had  heard  no  sound,  but  the  chamber  door  had  opened 
and  she  had  come  forth.  Her  soft  French  accented  voice 
spoke  bis  name,  in  the  shadowy  gloaming  she  stood 
before  him,  her  face  white  and  still,  and  awfully  death-like. 
As  she  came  forward  in  her  white  dressing  gown,  her 
loose  black  hair  falling,  her  great  black  eyes  shining 
she  was  so  unearthly,  so  like  a  spirit,  that  involuntarily  he 
recoiled. 

"  I  have  startled  you,"  she  said.  "  I  beg  your  pardon. 
I  did  not  know  you  were  here,  but  I  am  glad  you  are.  To- 
morrow I  will  leave  this  house — to-night  I  should  like  to 
say  a  few  words  to  you." 

She  was  very  quiet,  ominously  quiet.     She  sat  down  as 


# 


*  m% 


\i\ 


MR.  usToyrs  story. 


145 


i*^ 


she  spoke,  close  to  the  fire  ;  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap, 
her  weird  looking  ejes  fixed  on  his  face.  Nervously 
Mr.  Liston  got  up  and  looked  around  for  a  bell. 

"  Shall  I  ring,  I  mean  call,  for  lights.  I  am  very  glad 
to  see  you  up,  Miss  Bour — I  mean  Mrs.  Laurence." 

"  Thank  you  "  she  answered  gently  "  and  no,  please — 
don't  ask  for  a  lamp.  Such  a  wretch  as  I  am  naturally 
prefers  the  dark.  Mr.  Liston,"  with  strange,  swift 
abruptness,  "  I  have  lain  in  there,  and  within  the  last 
few  hours  I  have  befi  able  to  think.  I  believe  all 
that  you  have  told  me,  I  know  what  I  am — as  utterly 
lost  and  forlorn  a  sinner  as  the  wide  earth  holds.  I 
know  what  he  is — a  greater  villain  than  if,  on  the  night  I 
saw  him  first,  he  had  stabbed  me  to  the  heart.  All  this  I 
know.  Mr.  Liston,  will  you  tell  me  something  more. 
Are  you  Laurence Thorndyke's  friend  or  enemy?" 

In  the  course  of  his  forty  years  of  life,  Mr.  Liston  had 
come  across  a  good  many  incomprehensible  women,  but 
perhaps,  he  had  never  been  quite  so  completely  taken 
aback  before.  She  spoke  the  name  of  her  betrayer,  of  the 
man  she  had  loved  so  passionately,  and  in  one  moment 
had  lost  for  ever,  without  one  tremor  or  falter.  The 
sombre  eyes  were  looking  at  him  full.  He  drew  nearer  to 
her — a  great  exultation  in  his  soul.  This  girl  was  made  of 
sterner  stuflf  than  Lucy  West.  Laurence  Thorndyke's 
hour  had  come. 

•'Am  I  Laurence  Thorndyke's  friend  or  enemy?  His 
enemy.  Miss  Bourdon — his  bitterest  enemy  on  earth  for 
the  last  five  years." 

"  I  thought  so.  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  thought  so. 
Mr.  Liston,  what  has  he  done  to  you  ?" 

"  Blighted  and  darkened  my  life,  as  he  has  blighted  and 

7 


146 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


darkened  yours.  He  was  hardly  one-and-twenty  then,  but 
the  devil  was  uppermost  in  him  from  his  cradle.  Her 
name  was  Lucy  West,  I  had  known  her  from  babyhood," 
was  almost  double  her  age,  but  when  I  asked  her  to  marry 
me  she  consented.  I  loved  her  well,  she  knew  that 
I  could  take  her  to  the  city  to  live,  that  was  the  desire 
of  her  heart.  I  know  now  she  never  cared  for  me,  but 
they  were  poor  and  pinched  at  home,and  she  was  vain  of 
her  rose-and-milk  skin,  of  her  bright  eyes  and  sparkling 
teeth. 

"  I  was  old,  and  small,  and  plain,  but  I  could  give  her 
silk  dresses  and  a  house  in  town,  a  servant  to  wait  upon 
her,  and  she  was  ready  to  marry  me.  I  was  then  what  I 
am  now,  Mr.  Darcy's  land  steward,  agent,  confidential 
valet,  all  in  one.  Young  Mr.  Laurence  came  home  from 
Harvard  for  his  vacation ;  and  full  of  admiration  for  this 
bright  young  beauty,  proud  and  fond  beyond  all  telling  of 
her,  I  took  him  down  with  me  to  show  him  the  charming 
little  wife  I  was  going  to  marry.  No  thought  of  distrusting 
either  ever  entered  my  mind,  in  my  way  I  loved  and 
admired  both,  with  my  whole  heart.  Miss  Bourdon,  you 
know  this  story  before  I  tell  it,  one  of  the  oldest  stories 
the  world  has  to  tell. 

"  We  remained  a  fortnight.  Then  I  had  to  go  back  to 
New  York.  It  was  August,  and  we  were  to  be  married  in 
October.  He  returned  with  me,  stayed  a  week  with  his 
adopted  uncle,  then  returned  to  Boston,  so  he  said.  One 
week  later,  while  I  was  busily  furnishing  the  pretty  house 
I  had  hired  for  my  little  Lucy,  came  a  letter  from  Lucy's 
mother.  I  see  at  this  moment,  Mrs  Laurence,  the  sunny, 
busy  street  at  which  I  sat  stupidly  staring,  for  hours 
after    I    read    that    letter.     I   hear  the    shouts   of    the 


r 

i 
u 
s 

:o 

n 

is 
ve 

36 

'S 

y. 

rs 


-. 


•  A 


MR.  US  TON'S  STORY. 


147 


children  at  play,  the  hot,  white  quiver  of  the  blazing  August 
noonday. 

"  Lucy  had  gone,  run  away  from  home  with  a  young 
man,  nobody  knew  who  for  certain,  but  everybody  thought 
with  the  young  gentleman  I  had  brought  there,  Mr. 
Thorndyke.  I  had  trusted  her,  Mrs.  Laurence,  as  I  tell  you 
I  had  loved  and  trusted  them  both  entirely.  I  sat  there 
stupefied ,  I  need  not  tell  you  what  I  suffered.  Next  day 
I  went  down  to  the  village.  Her  mother  was  nearly  crazed, 
the  whole  village  was  gossipping  the  shameful  story.  He 
— or  some  one  like  him,  had  been  seen  haunting  the  out- 
skirts of  the  village,  she  had  stolen,  evening  after  evening, 
to  some  secret  tryst. 

"  She  had  left  a  note — '  she  couldn't  marry  old  Liston,' 
she  said  ; '  she  had  gone  away  with  somebody  she  liked  ten 
thousand  times  better.  They  needn't  look  for  her.  If  he 
made  her  a  lady  she  would  come  back  of  herself,  if  not — but 
it  was  no  use  their  looking  for  her.  Tell  Mr.  Liston  she  was 
sorry,  and  she  hoped  mother  wouldn't  make  a  fuss,  and 
she  was  her  affectionate  daughter,  Lucy.' 

"  I  sat  and  read  the  curiously  heartless  words,  and  I 
knew  just  as  well  as  if  she  had  said  so,  that  it  was  with 
young  Laurence  she  had  gone.  I  knew,  too,  for  the  first 
time,  how  altogether  heartless,  base,  and  worthless  was  this 
girl.  But  there  was  nothing  to  be  said  or  done.  - 1 
went  back  to  New  York,  to  my  old  life,  in  a  stupid, 
plodding  sort  of  way.  I  said  nothing  to  Mr.  Darcy.  I  sold 
off  the  pretty  furniture.  I  waited  for  young  Mr.  Laurence 
to  return  ;  he  did  return  at  Christmas — handsome,  high- 
spirited,  and  dashing  as  ever.  But  he  rather  shrank  from 
me,  and  I  saw  it.  I  went  up  to  him  on  the  night  of  his 
arrival,  and  calmly  asked  him  the  question  : 


148 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


" '  Mr.  Laurence,  what  have  you  done  with  Lucy  West  ? ' 

"  He  turned  red  to  his  temples,  he  wasn't  too  old  or  too 
hardened  to  blush  then,  but  he  denied  everything.  Lying, 
—cold,  barefaced  lying,  is  one  of  Mr.  Thorndyke's  prin- 
cipal accomplishments. 

"'Heknewnothingof  Lucy  West— how  dared  I  insinuate 
such  a  thing  ! '  Straightening  himself  up  haughtily.  '  If 
she  had  run  away  from  me,  with  some  younger,  better 
looking  fellow,  it  was  only  what  I  might  have  expected. 
But  fools  of  forty  will  never  be  wise;'  and  then,  with  a 
sneering  laugh,  and  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  my  young 
pasha  strolls  away,  and  we  spoke  of  Lucy  West  no  more. 

"  That  was  five  years  ago.  One  winter  night,  a 
year  after,  walking  up  Grand  street  about  ten  o'clock, 
three  young  women  came  laughing  and  talking  loudly 
towards  me.  It  needed  no  second  look  at  their  painted 
faces,  their  tawdry  silks,  and  gaudy  'jewelry,'  to  tell  what 
they  were.  But  one  face— ah !  I  had  seen  it  last  fresh 
and  innocent,  down  among  the  peaceful  fields.  Our  eyes 
met ;  the  loud  laugh,  the  loud  words,  seemed  to  freeze  on 
her  lips— she  grew  white  under  all  the  paint  she  wore.  She 
turned  like  a  flash  and  tried  to  run— I  followed  and 
caught  her  in  five  seconds.  I  grasped  her  arm  and  held 
her  fast,  savagely,  I  suppose,  for  she  trembled  as  she  looked 

at  me. 

"  '  Let  me  go,  Mr.  Liston,'  she  said,  in  a  shaking  voice  ; 

'  you  hurt  me  ! ' 

"  ♦  No,  by  Heaven,'  I  said,  '  not  until  you  answer  me  half 
a  dozen  questions.  The  first  is :  '  Was  it  Laurence  Thorn- 
d)ke  with  whom  you  ran  away  ? ' 

"  Her  eyes  flashed  fire,  the  color  came  back  to  her  face, 
her  hands  clenched.    She  burst  forth  into  such  a  torrent  of 


\ 


MR.  LIsrON'S  STORY. 


149 


words,  choked  with  rage,  interlarded  with  oaths,  that  my 
blood  ran  cold,  that  my  passion  cooled  before  it.  She 
had  been  inveigled  away  by  Tliorndyke,  there  was  no 
sham  marriage  here — no  promise  of  marriage  even  ;  I  will 
do  him  that  justice,  and  in  six  months,  friendless  and  penni- 
less, she  was  adrift  in  the  streets  of  New  York.  She  was 
looking  for  him  night  and  day,  if  ever  she  met  him  she 
would  tear  the  very  eyes  out  of  his  head  I 

"  Would  she  go  home  ?  I  asked  her.  I  would  pay  her 
way — her  mother  would  receive  and  pardon  her. 

"  She  laughed  in  my  face.  What !  take  my  money — of 
all  men  !  go  back  to  the  village  where  once  she  had  queened 
it  over  all  the  girls — like  this  !  She  broke  from  me,  and 
her  shrill,  mocking  laugh  came  back  as  she  ran  and 
joined  her  companions.     I  have  never  seen  her  since. 

"  That  is  my  story,  Miss  Bourdon.  Two  years  have  passed 
since  that  night — my  dull  life  goes  on — I  serve  Mr.  Darcy 
— I  watch  Mr.  Thorndyke.  I  have  come  to  his  aid  more 
than  once,  I  have  screened  his  evil  deeds  from  his  uncle 
as  I  have  screened  this.  He  is  to  be  married  the  first 
week  of  December  to  Miss  Helen  Holmes,  a  beautiful  girl 
and  an  heiress.  The  last  duty  I  am  to  perform  for  him  is 
to  hush  up  this  story  of  yours,  to  restore  you  to  your  friends 
like  a  bale  of  damaged  goods.  But  I  think  his  time  has 
come  ;  I  think  it  should  be  our  turn  now.  It  is  for  you  and 
me  to  say  whether  he  shall  inherit  his  uncle's  fortune 
— whether  he  shall  marry  Helen  Holmes  or  not." 


il" 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

A     DARK     COMPACT. 

|HE  twilight  had  deepened  almost  into  dark- 
ness. Mr.  Liston  unconsciously,  in  the  excite- 
ment of  the  tragedy  of  his  life,  told  now  for 
the  first  time,  had  risen,  and  was  walking  up 
and  down  the  room.  His  quiet  voice,  never  rising  above  its 
usual  monotonous  level,  was  yet  full  of  suppressed  feeling 
and  passion.  Now,  as  he  ceased,  he  looked  toward  the 
still  figure  sitting  so  motionless  before  the  smouldering  fire. 
She  had  not  stirred  once,  the  fixed  whiteness  of  her  face 
had  not  altered.  The  large,  luminous  eyes  looked  into  the 
dying  redness  in  the  grate,  the  lips  were  set  in  one  tense 
tight  line.  Until  last  night  she  had  been  but  a  child,  the 
veriest  child  in  the  tragic  drama  of  life,  the  sin  and  shame, 
the  utter  misery  of  the  world  to  her  a  sealed  book.  All  at 
once  the  black,  bitter  page  had  opened,  she  was  one  of  the 
lost  herself,  love,  truth,  honor — there  were  none  on  earth. 
A  loathing  of  herself,  of  him,  of  life,  filled  her — an  unspeak- 
able bitterness  weighed  her  down  body  and  soul. 

"  You  do  not  speak.  Miss  BourHon,"  Mr.  Liston  said, 
uneasily.     "  You — you  have  not  fallen  asleep  ? " 

"  Asleep ! "  she  laughed   a   little,  strangely  sounding 
laugh.     "  Not  likely,  Mr.  Liston  ;  I  have  been  listening  to 


.  -w^t  THr-"^T  '"*~1P»"''J*V*'^'^*"'  ■ 


A  DARK  COMPACT. 


151 


your  story — not  a  pleasant  story  to  listen  to  or  to  tell.  I 
am  sorry  for  you,  I  am  sorry  for  her.  Our  stories  are 
strangely  alike — we  have  both  thrown  over  good  and  loyal 
men  to  become  a  villain's  victim.  We  have  no  one  to  thank 
but  ourselves.  More  or  less,  we  both  richly  deserve  our 
fate." 

There  was  a  hard,  reckless  bitterness  in  the  words,  in 
the  tone.  She  had  not  shed  a  tear  since  the  blow  had 
fallen. 

Mr.  Liston  paused  in  his  walk  and  strove  to  read  her 
face. 

"  Both  ? "  he  said.  "  No,  Miss  Bourdon.  She,  perhaps, 
but  you  do  not.  You  believed  yourself  his  wife,  in  all 
honor  and  truth  ;  to  you  no  stain  of  guilt  attaches.  But  all 
the  blacker  is  his  dastardly  betrayal  of  you.  Without  even 
the  excuse  of  loving  you,  he  forced  you  from  home,  only 
to  gratify  his  brutal  malice  against  Richard  Gilbert.  He 
told  me  so  himself  \  out  of  his  own  mouth  he  stands  con- 
demned." 

She  shivered  suddenly,  she  shrank  as  though  he  had 
struck  her.  From  first  to  last  she  had  been  fooled  ;  that 
was,  perhaps,  the  crudest,  sharpest  blow  of  all,  to  know 
that  Laurence  Thorndyke  had  never  for  one  poor  instant 
loved  her,  that  hatred,  not  love,  had  been  at  the  bottom  of 
it  all. 

"  Don't  let  us  speak  of  it,"  she  said,  hoarsely.  "  I— 
I  can't  bear  it.     O  Heaven !  what  have  I  done  ? " 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  a  dry,  shuddering 
sob  shaking  her  from  head  to  foot. 

"  If  I  could  only  die,"  she  thought,  with  a  pang  :^f  horri- 
ble agony  and  fear  ;  "  If  I  dared  only  die  !  " 

"  Listen  to  me,  Mrs.  Laurence,"  Mr.  Liston  said,  stead- 


152 


AORLVE'S  REVENGE, 


ily,  and  as  if  he  read  her  thouglits.  "  Don't  despair;  you 
have  something  to  live  for  yet." 

"Something  to  live  for?"  she  repeated,  in  the  same 
stifled  tones.     "What?" 

"  Revenge." 

"What?" 

"  Revenge  upon  Laurence  Thorndyke.  It  is  your  right 
and  your  duty.  His  evil  deeds  have  been  hidden  from 
the  light  long  enough.  Let  his  day  of  retribution  come — 
from  your  hand  let  his  doom  fall." 

She  looked  up.  In  the  deepening  dusk  the  man's  face 
was  set  stern  as  stone. 

"  From  my  hand  ?    How  ? " 

"  By  simply  telling  the  truth.  Come  with  me  to  New 
York  ;  come  with  me  before  Hugh  Darcy  and  Helen 
Holmes,  and  tell  your  story  as  it  stands.  ^Iy  word  for  it, 
there  will  be  neither  wedding  nor  fortune  in  store  for 
Laurence  Thorndyke  after  that." 

Her  black  eyes  lit  and  flashed  for  a  moment  with  some 
of  his  own  vengeful  fire.     She  drew  her  breath  hard. 

'■  You  think  this?  "  she  said. 

"  I  know  this.  Stern,  rigorous  justice  to  all  men  is 
Hugh  Darcy's  motto.  And  Miss  Holmes  is  as  proud,  and 
pure,  and  womanly  as  she  is  rich  and  beautiful.  She 
would  cast  him  off,  though  they  stood  at  the  altar." 

Her  lips  set  themselves  tighter  in  that  tense  line.  She 
sat  staring  steadfastly  into  the  fire,  her  breast  rising  and 
falling  with  the  tumult  within. 

The  little  clock  on  the  mantel  ticked  fast  and  loud  ;  the 
ceaseless  patter,  patter  of  the  autumnal  rain  tapped  like 
ghostly  fingers  on  the  pane.  Down  on  the  shore  below 
the  long,  sullen  breakers  boomed.     The  man's  heart  beat 


A   DARK  COMPACT. 


'53 


as  he  waited.  He  had  looked  forward  to  some  such  hour 
as  this,  for  five  long  years,  to  plot  and  plan  his  enemy's 
ruin.     And  in  this  girl's  hands  it  lay  to-night. 

At  last. 

"  She  loves  him,  does  she  not  ? "  She  asked  the  question 
huskily. 

"Do  you  mean  Miss  Holmes?  Only  too  well,  I  fc.ir, 
Mrs.  Laurence.  As  I  iiave  said,  it  comes  easily  to  all  of 
you  to  lose  your  hearts  to  Mr.  Thorndyke." 

She  never  heeded  the  savage  sarcasm  of  his  tone.  A 
tumult  of  temptation  was  warring  within  her. 

"  And  she  is  young  and  gentle,  and  pure  and  good  ? " 
she  went  on. 

"  All  that  and  more.  A  beautiful  and  gracious  lady  as 
ever  drew  breath." 

"  And  I  am  not  his  wife.  And  you  tell  me  she  loves 
and  trusts  him.  Yes  I  it  is  easy  to  do  that !  If  she  casts 
him  off  she  will  break  her  own  heart.  She  at  least  has 
never  wronged  me — why  should  her  life  be  blighted  as  mine 
and  Lucy  West's  have  been  ?  Mr.  Liston,  as  much  as  I 
ever  loved  Laurence  Thorndyke,  I  think  I  hate  him  to- 
night— "  her  black  eyes  flamed  up  in  the  dusk.  "  I  want 
to  be  revenged  upon  him — I  will  be  revenged  upon  him, 
but  not  that  way." 

"  Madam,  I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"  I  mean  this,  Mr.  Liston — and  it  is  of  no  use  your 
growing  angry  —  I  will  not  stab  Laurence  Thorndyke 
through  the  innocent  girl  who  loves  him.  I  have  fallen 
very  low,  but  not  quite  low  enough  for  that.  Let  her 
marry  him — I  shall  not  lift  a  finger — speak  a  word  to  pre- 
vent it.     She  at  least  has  never  wronged  me." 

"  No,  she  has  never  wronged  you,  but  do  you  think  you 


154 


AVK/A'E'S  KF.VEXGE. 


can  do  her  a  greater  wrong  than  by  letting  her  become  tlie 
wife  of  a  heartless  scouiulrel  and  libertine  ?  I  thought 
better  of  you,  Miss  Bourdon.  Laurence  Thorndyke  is  to 
escape,  then,  after  all  ? " 

Her  eyes  flashed — literally  flashed  in  the  firelight. 

"  No  I  So  surely  as  we  both  live  he  shall  not  escape. 
But  not  in  that  way  shall  he  be  punished." 

"  Then,  how " 

"  Not  to-night,  Mr.  Listen ;  some  other  time  we  will 
talk  of  this.  When  did  you  say  the — the  wedding  was  to 
take  place  ? " 

"  The  first  week  of  December.  They  will  spend  the 
winter  South.  She  is  a  Southerner  hy  birth,  although  at 
present  residing  with  her  guardian,  Mr.  Darcy,  in  New 
York.  I  am  to  understand,  then,  you  will  not  prevent 
this  marriage  ? " 

"  I  will  not  prevent  it.  I  have  had  my  fool's  paradise  —  so 
no  doubt  had  Lucy  West,  why  should  not  Helen  Holmes?" 

"  Very  well,  then.  Miss  Bourdon."  He  spoke  in  his 
customary  cold,  monotonous  voice.  "  My  business  this 
evening  is  almost  concluded.  At  what  hour  to-morrow 
will  it  be  most  convenient  for  you  to  leave  .' " 

"  To  leave  1 " 

"  To  return  to  your  friends  in  Maine,  Such  were  Mr. 
Thorndyke's  orders.  As  you  have  no  money  of  your  own, 
I  presume  you  are  aware  you  cannot  remain  here.  Up  to 
the  present  I  am  prepared  to  pay  what  is  due  the  Misses 
Waddle — I  am  to  escort  you  in  safety  to  Portland.  After 
that — '  the  world  is  all  before  you  where  to  choose.'  Such 
are  my  master's  orders." 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  suppressed  passion  in  every  line  of 
her  white  face,  in  every  tone  of  her  voice. 


.> 


1 


A   DARK  CO  MP  ACT. 


I5S 


.  '^ 


< 


"  The  coward  I "  she  said,  ahnost  in  a  whisper.  "  The 
base,  base,  base  coward  1  Sir,  I  will  never  go  home  !  I 
will  go  down  to  the  sea  yonder,  and  make  an  end  o£  it  all, 
but  home  again — never  I " 

"Ah,  I  thought  not  1"  he  said  quietly.  "Then,  Miss 
Bourdon,  may  I  ask  what  you  mean  to  do  ?  You  cannot 
stay  here." 

'•  No,  I  cannot  stay  here,"  she  said  bitterly.  "  I  am 
utterly  friendless  and  homeless  to-night.  I  don't  know 
what  to  do." 

"  Let  me  tell  you.    Come  to  New  York." 
«'  Sir !  " 

«•  Our  hatred  of  Laurence  Thorndyke  is  a  bond  between 
us.  You  shall  never  be  friendless  nor  homeless  while  I 
live.  I  am  old  enough  to  be  your  father ;  you  may  trust 
me,  and  never  repent  it,  that  I  swear.  See  here  I  this  is 
what  I  mean  to  do  for  you.  Sit  down  once  more." 
She  obeyed,  looking  at  him  in  wonder  and  doubt. 
"  Helen  Holmes  lives  with  Hugh  Darcy.  She  is  as 
dear  as  a  daughter  to  him.  He  is  one  of  those  old,  world- 
worn  men  who  love  to  have  youth  and  beauty  about  them. 
She  reads  for  him  his  newspaper  and  books  of  poetry  and 
romance  ;  he  is  as  fond  of  verse  and  fiction  as  a  girl  in 
her  teens.  She  plays  the  piano  and  sings  for  him— he  has 
a  passion  for  music.     Now,  can  you  play  and  sing  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  here  is  my  plan.  He  is  soon  to  lose  Miss 
Holmes,  and  some  one  like  her  in  her  place  he  must  have 
—that  he  told  me  himself.  A  young  girl  to  read  aloud 
his  pet  books,  to  play  in  the  long  winter  evenings  his  pet 
music,  to  sing  his  favorite  songs,  to  read  and  write  his  let- 
ters—to brighten  the  dull  old  house  generally  by  her  pres- 


■.■ryj-ia^ijt'V*-*''*^'**'^ 


156 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


ence — to  look  pretty  and  fair  and  sweet  always ;  that  is 
what  he  wants.  Salary  is  no  object  with  him.  You  will 
have  a  happy  home,  light  ami  pleasant  work,  plenty  of 
money.     Will  you  lake  it  ? " 

"  I5ut— " 

"  You  will  suit  him  exactly.  You  are  young  enough,  in 
all  conscience — pretty  enough,  ii  you  will  pardon  my  say- 
ing so,  to  brighten  even  a  duller  house  than  that.  You 
play,  you  sing,  you  can  read  aloud.  What  more  do  you 
want  ?  You  need  a  home.  There  is  a  home.  And  " — a 
long  pause — "  who  can  tell  what  may  come  of  it  ?  " 

She  was  looking  up,  he  was  looking  down.  Their 
eyes  met.  In  the  darkness  they  could  yet  look  at 
each  other  long  and  steadily  for  a  moment.  Then  hers 
fell. 

"  How  old  is  Mr.  Darcy  ?  "  she  asked  in  a  subdued 
voice. 

"  He  is  seventy-eight,  old,  feeble,  and  easily  worked  upon. 
I  say  again — who  knows  what  may  come  of  it  ?  To  be 
disinherited  is  the  only  thing  in  heaven  or  earth  Laurence 
Thorndyke  is  afraid  of.  Anil  old  men  of  eighty,  with  stub- 
born minds  and  strong  resentments,  do  sometimes  make 
such  strange  wills." 

Again  there  was  a  pause.  Then  Norine  Bourdon  spoke 
firmly. 

"  I  will  go  with  you  to  New  York." 

He  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief. 

"  I  thought  you  would.  You  will  not  repent  it,  Mrs. 
I/uirence.  By-the-by,  would  you  mind  leaving  that  name 
behind  you? " 

She  looked  at  him  inquiringly. 
''You  will  accompany   me  to   New  York  as  my  niece, 


A   DARK  COMPACT. 


157 


Jane  Listen.  I  have  a  niece  of  that  name,  a  widow,  out  in 
Oregon.  As  my  niece,  Mrs.  Jane  Liston,  from  the  coun- 
try, looking  for  work  in  tiie  city,  I  will  introduce  you  to  my 
landlady,  a  most  respectable  woman.  As  my  niece,  Jane 
Liston,  I  will  present  you  to  Mr.  Darcy.  We  don't  want 
Master  Laurence  to  see  our  little  game.  If  you  went 
as  Mrs.  Laurence,  or  Miss  Kent,  even,  he  would.  He 
will  be  sure  to  hear  the  name  of  Miss  Holmes'  successor." 
"  ]}ut — you  have  forgotten — I  may  meet  him.  That  " — 
her  lips  quivering—"  I  could  not  bear." 

"  No  danger  at  all.  You  will  not  go  there  until  they  are 
off  on  their  wedding  tour.  They  do  not  return  until  May. 
In  five  months,  judiciously  made  use  of,  great  things  may 
happ-in." 

She  rose  up,  with  a  long,  weary-worn  sigh. 

"  I  am  in  your  hands,  Mr.  Liston.  Friendless,  money- 
less, helpless,  I  suppose  I  ought  to  thank  you  for  this,  but 
—I  cannot.  I  know  it  is  not  for  my  sake  you  are  doing  it, 
but  for  the  sake  of  your  revenge.  Say  what  you  like  of 
me  when  we  go  to  New  York  ;  I  am  ready  to  follow  where 
you  lead.  Just  now  I  am  tired — we  will  not  talk  any  more. 
Let  us  say  good-night." 

She  gave  him  her  hand ;  it  was  like  ice. 
uneasily. 

"  And  you  will  not  fail  me? "  he  asked. 

"  I  shall  not  fail  you,"  she  answered.  In  what  either 
said,  it  was  not  necessary.  They  understood— revenge 
upon  Laurence  Thorndyke. 

"  To-morrow  at  twelve  I  will  call  for  you  here  to  take 
the  train  for  New  York.     You  will  be  ready  ?  " 

"  I  will  be  ready."  The  door  closed  behind  the  small 
white  figure,  and  he  was  alone. 


He  let  it  fall 


.[rrjBi.— 7-T'g.—ETTg-.-T-,r.-iTr-aa^-.«^g* 


158 


NORLVE'S  REVENGE. 


Alone,  and  he  had  not  told  her  the  truth,  that  in  his 
opinion  the  marriage  was  legal. 

"  Another  time,"  he  thought ;  "  big.~-r)y  is  an  ugly  crime. 
Let  us  wait  until  he  marries  Miss  Holmes." 


■A 


'ii 


w 


# 


Mr. 


CHAPTER  XV. 
"a  fashiokable  wedding." 

NOTHER  night  had  passed,  another  day  had 
come.     At  twelve  sharp  Mr.  Listen  and  a  hack- 
ney carriage  had  come  for  "  Mrs.  Laurence." 
Her  trunks  had  been  packed  by  her  own-hands. 
Listen  had  settled  the  claim  of  the   Misses  Waddle, 


and  white  and  still  she  had  come  out,  shaken  hands  with 
the  kindly  spinsters,  entered  the  hack,  fallen  back  in  a  cor- 
ner, her  hand  shading  her  eyes,  and  so  was  driven  away 
from  the  Chelsea  cottage  forever. 

"  And  dead  and  in  her  shroud,"  said  the  younger  Miss 
Waddle,  melo-dramatically,  "  she  will  never  look  more  like 
death  than  she  does  to-day." 

She  had  scarcely  slept  the  night  through.  That  pleas- 
ant cottage  chamber  overlooking  the  sea  was  haunted  for 
her,  full  of  memories  that  nearly  maddened  her  to-night. 
With  all  her  heart  she  had  loved — with  all  her  soul  she  had 
trusted.  She  stood  here  in  the  darkness,  forsaken,  deceived. 
She  hardly  knew  whether  it  were  passionate  love  still,  or 
passionate  hatred  that  filled  her  now.  The  boundary  line 
between  strong  love  and  strong  hate  is  but  narrow  at 
the  best.  A  tumult  that  was  agony  filled  heart  and 
brain.  He  had  never  cared  for  her  ;  never,  never  !  Out  of 
pure  revenge  upon  Richard  Gilbert  he  had  mocked  her 
with  the  farce  of  love — mocktd  her  from  first  to  last,  and 
wearied  of  her  before  one  poor  week  had  ended. 


/ 


i6o 


NO  NINE'S  REVENGE. 


"  Lightly  won,  lightly  lost,"  man's  motto  always,  never 
more  true  than  in  her  case.  Without  one  pang  he  had  cast 
her  off  contemptuously,  glad  to  be  rid  of  her,  and  h;id 
sent  his  uncle's  servant  to  take  her  back  to  the  home 
she  had  disgraced,  the  hearts  she  had  broken.  Siie 
clenched  her  hands — in  the  darkness  she  was  walking  up 
and  down  her  room,  and  hoarse,  broken  murmurs  of  a 
woman  scorned  and  outraged  came  from  her  lips.  She  could 
picture  him  even  at  this  hour  seated  by  the  side  of  the  girl 
he  was  so  soon  to  marry,  his  arm  encircling  her,  his  eyes 
looking  love  into  hers,  his  lips  murmuring  the  old  false 
vows,  sealing  them  with  the  old  false  caresses.  Face  down- 
ward she  flung  herself  upon  the  bed  at  last,  wild  with  the 
remorse,  the  despair  of  her  own  thoughts. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried ;  "  I  cannot  bear  it !  I  cannot,  I  cannot." 

The  darkness  wrapped  her,  the  deep  silence  of  the 
night  was  around  her.  Up  stairs  the  Misses  Waddle  slept 
their  vestal  beauty  sleep,  commonplace  and  content.  A 
month  ago  she  had  pitied  their  dull,  loveless,  ploddii.ij 
lives.  Ah,  Heaven  !  to  be  free  from  this  torturing  pain 
at  her  heart,  and  able  to  sleep  like  them  now.  But  even 
to  her  sleep  came  at  last,  the  spent  sleep  of  utter  exhaus- 
tion. 

The  morning  sun  was  shining  brightly  when  she  awoke. 
She  got  up  feeling  chilled  and  stiff,  worn  and  grown  old. 
Mechanically  she  bathed  and  breakfasted — Miss  Waddle 
the  younger  gazing  askance  at  her  white  cheeks  and  lustre- 
less eyes.  Mechanically  she  returned  to  her  room,  and 
began  packing  her  trunks.  And  then,  this  done,  she  sat 
with  folded  hands  by  the  window,  looking  out  upon  the 
sparkling  sea,  until  noon  and  Mr.  Liston  should  come. 
Her  mind  was  a  blank ;  the  very  intensity  of  the  blow  be- 


»A  FASHIONABLE  WEDDING." 


I6l 


^m. 


numbed  pain.  Last  night  she  had  lain  yonder,  and  writhed 
in  her  torture  ;  to-day  she  felt  almost  apathetic — indiffer- 
ent to  past,  present,  and  future.  And  so,  pale  and  cold, 
and  still,  Mr.  Liston  had  found  her,  so  she  had  shaken 
hands,  and  said  good-by  to  the  Misses  Waddle,  and  so  she 
had  been  driven  away  from  her  "  honeymoon  paradise  "  to 
begin  her  life  anew. 

They  reached  New  York.  If  Mr.  Liston  had  indeed 
been  the  fondest  of  uncles,  he  could  not  have  been  more 
afifectiona'.oly  solicitous  for  the  welfare  and  comfort  of  his 
charge.  She  was  indifferent  to  it  all — unconscious  of  it  in- 
deed, looking  upon  all  things  with  dull,  half-sightless  eyes. 

"  Take  good  care  of  her,  Mrs.  Wilkins,"  he  said  to  his 
landlady  ;  "  she  is  ailing,  as  you  can  see,  and  don't  let  her 
be  disturbed  or  annoyed  in  my  absence.  She  has  had 
trouble  lately,  and  is  not  like  herself," 

It  was  a  shabby-genteel  boarding-house,  in  a  shabby-gen- 
teel street,  close  upon  East  Broadway.  At  first  "Mrs. 
Liston  "  had  her  meals  served  in  her  room,  and  spent  her 
time,  for  all  Mrs.  Wilkins  could  see,  in  sitting  at  the 
window,  wiih  idly-lying  hunds,  gazing  out  into  the  dull 
street.  Mr.  Liston  was  absent  the  chief  part  of  the  day, 
and  Mrs.  Liston  steadfastly  kept  her  room  ;  but  in  the 
evenings,  always  closely  veiled,  Mrs.  Wilkins  observed  he 
could  prevail  upon  her  to  go  out  with  him  for  a  walk.  He 
was  kind  to  her,  the  girl  vaguely  felt — she  would  obey  him, 
at  least ;  and,  since  she  could  not  die  and  make  an  end  of 
it  all,  why,  she  might  as  well  take  a  little  exercise  for  her 
health's  sake.  He  was  veiy  good  to  her,  but  she  felt  no 
gratitude — it  was  not  for  her  sake,  but  for  the  sake  of  the 
grudge  he  owed  their  mutual  foe.  Their  mutual  foe  !  Did 
she    hate   Laurence   Thorndyke    she   wondered.    There 


'4 


l62 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


were  times  when  her  very  soul  grew  sick  with  longing  for 
the  sight  of  his  face,  the  tone  of  his  voice,  the  touch  of  his 
hand,  and  the  sound  of  his  name  from  Mr.  Liston's  lips 
had  power  to  thrill  her  to  the  inmost  heart  still. 
Gradually,  as  the  weeks  passed,  matters  changed. 

"  Time,  that  blunts  the  cdRe  of  things, 
Drica  our  tears  and  six)ils  our  bliss," 

was  quietly  at  work  for  Norine.  She  came  down  to  the 
public  table,  and  the  pale,  spirituelle  beauty  of  the  invisi- 
ble and  mysterious  Miss  Liston  caused  a  profound  sensa- 
tion among  the  boarders.  Next,  she  took  to  spending 
the  long  afternoons  in  the  dingy  boarding-house  parlor, 
playing  upon  the  jingling,  toneless  boarding-house  piano 
such  melodies  of  mournful  sweetness  that  Mrs.  Wilkins  and 
her  handmaidens  of  the  kitchen  paused  in  their  wor!  to 
listen,  and  wonder,  and  admire. 

"That  young  woman  has  seen  trouble,"  Mrs.  Wilkins 
said,  shaking  her  head.  She  had  her  own  opinion — a 
pretty  correct  one — of  what  nature  that  trouble  was ;  but 
her  beauty  and  her  youth  were  there  to  plead  for  her. 
She  was  a  lady  to  her  finger-tips,  that  was  evident ;  and— 
most  potent  reason  of  all  with  Mrs.  Wilkins — Mr.  Liston 
had  been  her  boarder  and  friend  for  the  past  ten  years. 

So  December  came. 

How  the  time  had  gone  Norine  could  hardly  have  told— 
it  did  go  somehow,  that  was  all.  Trouble,  remorse,  despair, 
do  not  kill ;  she  was  still  alive  and  tolerably  well,  could 
eat  and  sleep,  play  the  old  tunes,  even  sometimes  sing  the 
old  songs.  She  looked  at  herself  in  a  sort  of  dreary  won- 
der in  the  glass.  The  face  she  saw  a  little  paler  than  of 
old,  was  fair  and  youthful  still — the  bright  hair  glossy  and 


'^■■ 


'M 


"A  FASHIONABLE  WEDDING'' 


163 


abundant  as  ever.  She  had  read  of  people  whose  hair 
turned  gray  with  trouble ;  hers  had  passed  and  left  no 
sign,  only  on  the  lips  that  had  forgotten  to  smile,  the  eyes 
that  never  lit  into  gladness  or  hope,  and  the  heart  that  lay 
like  lead  in  her  bosom. 

The  crisp,  frosty  December  days  seemed  to  fly,  bring- 
ing with  them  his  wedding-day.  Every  hour  now  the 
old  agony  of  that  night  in  the  Chelsea  cottage  came  back 
to  stab  her  through.  The  seventh  of  December  was  the 
day — could  she  bear  it  ? — and  it  was  in  her  power  even  yet, 
Mr.  Liston  told  her,  to  prevent  it.  Twice  during  the  last 
fortnight  she  had  seen  him,  the  first  time,  when,  closely 
veiled,  her  dress  had  brushed  him  on  Broadway.  He  was 
advancing  with  another  gentleman,  both  were  smoking,  both 
were  laughing  gayly  at  some  good  story  Thorndyke  seemed 
to  be  telling.  Handsome,  elegant,  well-dressed,  nonchalant, 
he  passed  her,  actually  turning  to  glance  after  the  graceful 
figure  and  veiled  face. 

"  That  figure  should  belong  to  a  pretty  girl,"  she  had 
heard  him  say.  "  Deuce  take  the  veils,  what  do  they  wear 
'em  for.  There — there's  something  oddly  familiar  about 
her,  too." 

She  had  turned  sick  and  faint,  she  leaned  against  a  store 
window  for  a  moment,  the  busy  street  going  round  and 
round.     So  they  had  met  and  parted  again. 

The  second  time  it  wa?  almost  worse.  Mr.  Liston  had 
taken  her  to  the  opera — in  her  passionate  love  of  music  she 
could  forget,  for  a  few  brief  hours,  her  pain,  when,  coming 
out,  in  the  crush,  they  had  come  almost  face  to  face.  His 
bride  elect  was  on  his  arm,  by  instinct  she  knew  it,  a  tall, 
stylish  girl,  in  sweeping  draperies,  with  blonde  hair,  blue 
eyes,  and  a  skin  like   pearl.     He  was  bending  his  tall 


164 


NO  AVNE' S  REVENGE. 


head  over  her,  devotedly;  both  looked  brilliantly  hand- 
some and  happy. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  come  this  way !  "  Liston  had 
cried,  and  drawn  her  with  him  hurriedly  in  another  direc- 
tion. She  had  been  literally  unable  to  move,  standing, 
white  and  wild,  gazing  upon  him.  Presently  came  the 
fateful  wedding  day.  All  the  night  pteceding  she  lay 
awake,  the  old  tempest  of  feeling  going  on  within  her. 

Should  she  denounce  him,  or  should  she  not,  on  his 
wedding-day?  Should  she  take  his  bride  from  him  at  the 
very  altar,  and  proclaim  him  to  the  world  as  the  liar  and 
betrayer  he  was,  or  shouKl  she  wait  ?  She  could  not 
decide.  When  morning  came  her  mind  was  in  as  utter  a 
tumult  as  ever. 

"  Have  you  decided  ? "  Mr.  Liston  asked  her.  "  Shall 
Laurence  Thorndyke  leave  his  uncle's  house  to-day, 
with  his  bride  by  his  side,  or  as  an  outcast  and  a  pauper, 
scorned  by  all  ?     It  is  for  you  to  say." 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  answered,  hoarsely.  "  Take  me  to 
the  church — I  will  decide  there." 

He  had  taken  her,  led  her  in,  placed  her  in  one  of  the 
pews,  and  left  her.  His  manifold  duties  kept  him  with 
Mr.  Darcy ;  he  would  be  unable  to  join  Norine  again  that 
day. 

The  church  filled ;  an  hour  before  the  ceremony  it  was 
crowded.  Then  they  came ;  the  bridegroom  a  trifle  pale 
and  nervous,  as  bridegrooms  are  wont  to  be,  but,  as 
usual,  handsome  of  face  and  elegant  of  attire.  Then  on 
her  guardian's  arm,  the  bride,  a  dazzling  vision  of  white 
satin,  Honiton  lace,  pearl,  orange  blossoms,  gold  hair,  and 
tender  drooping  face.  A  breathless  hush  fills  the  church 
— in  that  hush  the  officiating  clergyman  came  forth — in 


•"i^l 


m 


^m»K»^. 


'•s 


"A  FASHIONABLE  WEDDING." 


165 


that  hush  the  bridal  party  take  their  places,  a  flock  of 
white  briilcsmaids,  a  group  of  black  gentlemen.  And 
then  a  voice  out  of  that  great  stillness  speaks. 

"  If  any  here  know  of  just  cause  or  impediment  why 
these  two  should  not  be  joined  in  the  bonds  of  matrimony, 
let  him  speak  now,  or  forever  hold  his  peace." 

Mr.  Liston  turns  his  quiet  face  and  watchful  eyes 
to  one  particular  pew,  to  one  slender  figure  and  veiled 
face  The  five  seconds  that  follow  are  as  five  centuries 
to  the  bridegroom.  His  face  is  quite  white,  his  gloved 
fingers  are  like  ice.  He  glances  up  at  Liston,  and  then — 
the  ceremony  begins.  What  a  horrible  time  it  takes, 
Laurence  Thorndyke  thinks ;  what  a  horrible  ordeal  a 
fashionable  public  marriage  is.  Does  a  dingy  hotel  par- 
lor rise  before  him,  the  rain  beating  on  the  windows,  and 
a  pale,  wistful  face  look  up  at  him,  while  a  mockery  of  this 
solemn  rite  is  being  gabbled  through  by  a  tipsy  actor  ?  Is 
it  the  fair,  happy,  downcast  face  of  his  bnde  he  sees  or 
that  other  face  as  he  saw  it  last,  all  white  and  drawn  in 
the  anguish  of  a  last  farewell  ? 

"What  God  hath  joined  together  let  no  man  put  asunder !" 

It  is  over.  He  draws  a  long,  hard  breath  of  relief. 
Come  what  may,  Helen  is  his  wife. 

They  rise  ;  they  file  slowly  and  gracefully  out  of  the 
church;  the  bride  hanging  on  the  bridegroom's  arm. 
Closely,  very  closely,  they  pass  one  particular  pew  wherein 
a  solitary  figure  stands.  She  has  risen  with  the  rest ;  she 
has  flung  back  her  veil,  .^nd  people  who  glance  at  her 
stop  involuntarily  and  look  igain.  The  face  is  like  stone, 
the  dark  eyes  all  wild  and  wide,  the  lips  apart ;  she  stands 
as  if  slowly  petrifying.  But  the  bridal  party  do  not  see 
her  J  they  pass  on,  and  out. 


Binajugmwii 


i66 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


"  Who  is  she  ? "  strangers  whisper.  "  Has  she  known 
Laurence  Thorndyke  ? " 

Then  they  too,  go,  and  all  is  over. 

The  wedding  parly  enter  their  carriages  and  are  whirled 
away.  Mr  Listen  sees  his  employer  safely  oflf,  then  returns 
hurriedly  to  the  church.  He  is  angry  with  Norine,  but  it 
is  his  duty  to  look  after  her,  and  something  in  her  face  to- 
day has  m.idc  him  afraid.  There  is  nothing  to  fear,  how- 
ever ;  she  is  very  quiet  now ;  she  sunk  dcTwn  upon  her 
knees,  her  head  has  fallen  forward  upon  the  rail.  He 
speaks  to  her  ;  she  does  not  answer.  He  touches  her  on 
the  shoulder ;  she  does  not  look  up.  He  lifts  her  head— 
—yes,  it  is  as  he  feared.  The  edifice  is  almost  deserted 
now  ;  he  takes  her  in  his  arms  and  carries  her  out  into 
the  air.  For  the  second  time  in  her  life  she  has  fainted 
entirely  away. 


« 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

"his    name    is    LAURENCE   THORNDYKE." 

GRAY  March  afternoon  is  blustering  itself  out 
in  the  streets  of  New  York — a  shxte-colored  sky, 
fast  drifting  with  black,  rainy  clouds  ;  the  wind 
sobs  and  shivers  in  great  dusty  soughs,  and 
pedestrians  bow  involuntarily  before  it,  and  speed  along 
with  winking  and  watery  eyes. 

In  a  quiet,  old-fashioned  street — for  there  are  quiet,  old- 
fashioned  streets  even  in  New  York — there  stands  a  big, 
square,  dingy,  red  brick  house,  set  in  a  square  of  grass- 
grown  front  garden,  a  square  of  brick  paving  in  the  rear. 
Two  slim  poplars — "old  maids  of  the  forest,"  lift  their 
tall,  prim  green  heads  on  either  side  of  the  heavy  hall 
door.  The  house  looks  comfortable,  but  gloomy,  and 
that  is  precisely  what  it  is,  this  dun-colored  spring  day, 
conjortable,  but  gloomy.  There  are  heavy  curtains  of 
dark,  rich  damask  dnaping  the  windows.  Through  the 
clear  panes  of  one  of  the  upper  windows  you  catch  the 
flicker  and  fall  of  a  red  coal  fire,  and  the  sombre  beauty 
of  a  girl's  face. 

She  stands  in  the  large,  handsome  room,  alone,  a  long, 
low  room,  with  a  carpet  of  rich,  dull  crimson  velvet,  cur- 
tains of  dull  crimson  satin  damask,  papered  walls,  dull 
crimson,  too.  There  are  oil  paintings  in  gilded  frames, 
ponderous  mahogany  chairs,  tables  and  footstools ;  but 
there  is  nothing  bright  in  the  apartment  save  the  cheerful 
red  fire.     It  is  all  dark  and  oppressive — not  even  except- 


i68 


NOK/XITS  REVEXGE. 


ins  the  Rirl.  The  p.ilc  face  that  looks  gloomily  out  at  (he 
fast  drifting  sky,  at  the  fast-fading  light,  is  smilclcss  and 
sol)er  as  all  thq  rest.  And  yet  it  is  a  yoiilhfiil  face,  a 
beautiful  face,  a  face  that  six  months  ago  bloomed  with 
a  childish  brightness  and  bloom,  the  face  of  Norine 
Bourdon. 

It  is  close  upon  four  months  since  she  entered  this 
house,  as  companion,  secretary,  amanuensis,  to  Mr.  Hugh 
Darcy.  Now  she  stands  here  debating  within  herself 
whether  she  shall  go  to  him  to-night  and  tell  him  she  must 
leave.  She  shrinks  from  the  task.  She  has  grown 
strangely  old  and  wise  in  these  four  months ;  she  knows 
something  of  the  world — sf)mething  of  what  it  must  be 
like  to  be  adrift  in  New  York,  friendless  and  penniless, 
with  only  eighteen  years  and  a  fair  face  for  one's  danger- 
ous dower.  Friendless  she  will  be  ;  for  in  leaving  she 
will  deeply  irritate  Mr.  Darcy,  deeply  anger  Mr.  Liston, 
and  in  all  the  world,  it  seems  to  Norine,  there  are  only 
those  two  she  can  call  friends. 

And  yet — friends  I  Can  she  call  even  them  by  that 
name  ?  Mr.  Liston  is  her  friend  and  protector  so  long  as 
he  thinks  she  will  aid  him  in  his  vengeance  upon  his  en- 
emy. Mr.  Darcy— well,  how  long  will  Mr.  Darcy  be  her 
friend  when  he  discovers  how  she  has  imposed  upon  him  ? 
That  under  a  false  name  and  history  she  has  sought  the 
shelter  of  his  roof— she,  the  cast-off  of  his  nephew  ?  He 
likes  her  well— that  she  knows  ;  he  trusts  her,  respects  her 
— how  much  liking  or  respect  will  remain  when  he  knows 
her  as  she  is  "i 

"  And  know  he  shall,"  she  says,  inwardly,  her  lips  com- 
pressed. "  I  cannot  carry  on  this  deception  longer.  For 
the  rest  I  would  have  to  leave  in  any  case— //i^^  return  in 


U 


'\<-^^Bi^^tS^^i*^:v>':^e^f»^^»iii\i^ 


1 


"  LA  U RE  NCR  THORN  J)  VA'E." 


169 


May,  and  I  cannot,  I  cannot  meet  them.  Mr.  Listen  may 
say  what  he  pleases,  it  were  exsier  to  die  than  to  stay  on 
and  meet  him  ;iyain — like  that." 

She  has  not  forgotten.  Such  first,  passionate  love  as 
slie  gave  Laurence  Thorndylve  is  not  to  be  out-lived  and 
trampled  out  in  four  months  ;  and  yet  it  is  much  more 
abhorrence  than  love  that  fills  her  heart  with  bitterness 
now. 

"The  dastard  I"  she  thinks,  her  black  eyes  gleaming 
dangerously  ;  "  the  coward  I  How  dare  he  do  it  I  One  day 
or  other  he  shall  i)ay  for  it,  that  1  swear  ;  but  I  cannot  meet 
him  now.  There  is  nothing  for  it  but  to  go  and  tell  Mr. 
Darcy  I  must  leave,  and  take  my  chance  in  the  world, 
quite  alone." 

She  leaned  her  forehead  against  the  cold,  clear  glass 
with  a  heavy  heart-sick  sigh.  The  first  keen  poignancy 
of  her  pain  was  over,  but  the  dull,  deadly  sickening  ache 
was  there  still,  and  would  be  for  many  a  day.  Hate  him 
she  might,  long  for  retaliation  she  did,  but  not  once  could 
she  think  of  him  the  happy  husband  of  Helen  Holmes 
without  the  very  heart  within  her  growing  faint  with  dead- 
ly jealousy.  The  sound  of  his  name,  the  sight  of  his 
letters,  had  power  to  njove  her  to  this  day.  In  the 
drawing-room  below  a  carefully-painted  portrait  of  the 
handsome  face,  the  bright  blue  eyes,  the  fair,  waving 
hair,  hung— a  portrait  so  true,  that  it  was  torture  only  to 
look  at  it,  and  yet  how  many  hours  had  she  not  stood 
before  it,  her  heart  full  of  bitterness— until  burning  tears 
filled  and  blinded  her  dark  impassioned  eyes. 

Now  he  and  his  bride  were  coming  home  to  this  house, 
and  she  was  expected  to  stay  here  and  meet  them.  Ek- 
pected  by  Mr.  Darcy,  who  had  learned  to  love  her  almost 

8 


170 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


as  a  daughter ;  expected  by  Mr.  Listen,  who  had  told  her 
she  must  confront  Laurence  Thorndyke  in  this  very  house, 
and  show  him  to  uncle  and  wife  as  he  really  was — a  coward, 
a  liar,  a  seducer. 

"  I  cannot  do  it  1 "  she  said,  her  hands  clenching  togeth- 
er. "  I  cannot  meet  him.  Mon  Dieu,  no  1  not  yet — not 
yet." 

She  had  been  introduced  into  the  house  just  two  weeks 
after  the  marriage  as  "  my  niece  from  the  country — Jane 
Lision."  As  Jane  Listen  she  had  remained  here  ever 
since,  winning  "golden  opinions"  from  all  the  household. 
She  had  found  Mr.  Darcy  a  decrepit,  irritable  old  invalid, 
bored  nearly  to  death  since  his  ward's  wedding — lonely, 
peevish,  sick.  He  had  looked  once  into  the  pale,  lovely 
face,  and  never  needed  to  look  again  to  like  her.  Trouble 
and  tears  had  not  marred  her  beauty.  A  little  of  the 
bloom — there  never  had  been  much — all  of  the  sparkle, 
the  gay  brilliance  that  had  charmed  Richard  Gilbert  were 
gone  ;  but  the  eighteen-year-old  face  was  very  sweet,  very 
lovely,  the  dark  Canadian  eyes,  with  their  unutterable 
sadness  and  pathos,  wonderfully  captivating ;  and  old 
I-ugh  Darcy,  with  a  passion  for  all  things  fair  and  young, 
had  become  her  captive  at  once. 

"  You  suit  me  fifty  times  better  than  Helen,"  he  said 
often,  drawing  the  dark  loops  of  shining  hair  fondly  through 
his  old  fingers.  "Helen  was  a  rattle  pate.  Never  mird 
— matrimony  will  tame  her  down,  though  the  lad's  fond  of 
her  enough,  and  will  make  her  a  very  good  sort  of  husband, 
I  dare  say,  as  husbands  go.  But  you,  little  woman,  with 
your  soft  voice — you  have  a  voice  like  an  ^'olian  harp, 
Jennie,  your  deft  fingers,  your  apt  ways — you  are  a  treas- 
yre  to  a  cross  old  Dachelor.     You  are  a  nurse  born,  Jen- 


■  ai.t<iMaj..-fk-j^)^>.',^^-^>(|-^^  ^^ 


"■LAURENCE  THORNDYKE:' 


171 


■• 


nie,  child  ;  how  did  I  ever  get  along  all  these  years  with- 
out you  ? " 

He  meant  it,  every  word,  and  a  moonlight  sort  of  smile, 
sweet  and  grateful,  if  very  sad,  thanked  him.  Once  she 
had  lifted  his  hand  to  her  lips  and  kissed  it,  passionate 
tears  filling  her  eyes. 

"la  treasure !  Oh,  Mr.  Darcy !  You  do  not  know 
what  you  say.  I  am  a  wretch — a  wretch  unworthy  of  your 
kindness  and  trust.     But  one  day  I  shall  tell  you  all." 

He  had  wondered  a  little  what  she  meant.  *'  Tell  him 
all ! "  What  could  the  child  have  to  tell  ?  She  was  so 
young — so  pathetically  young  to  be  widowed — what  story 
lay  in  her  life.'  The  very  oldest  of  all  old  stories,  no 
doubt — a  beloved  one  lost.  He  sighed  as  he  thought 
it,  bald-headed,  hoary  patriarch  that  he  was.  He  had 
had  his  story  and  his  day.  The  day  had  ended,  the 
story  was  read,  the  book  closed  and  put  away,  years  and 
years  and  years  ago.  In  the  gallant  and  golden  days  of 
his  youth  he  had  met  and  loved  a  girl,  and  been  (as  he 
believed,  as  she  told  him,)  loved  in  return.  He  left  her 
to  make  a  home  and  a  competence — he  was  no  millionaire 
in  those  far-off  days,  save  in  happiness — to  return  in  a 
year  and  marry  her.  Eight  months  after  there  came  to 
him  his  letters,  his  picture,  his  ring.  A  richer  knight  had 
entered  the  lists,  and  the  lady  was  borne  off  no  unwilling 
captive.  A  commonplace,  every-day  story — nothing  new 
at  all. 

He  took  his  punishment  like  a  man,  in  brave  silence, 
and  the  world  went  on,  and  years  and  riches  and  honors 
came,  and  a  man's  life  was  spoiled  forever,  that  was  all.  As 
be  recalls  it,  old,  white  haired,  half  paralyzed,  now  in  the 
twilight  of  seventy  odd  years,  he  can  remember  with  curious 


172 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


vividness  how  brightly  the  July  sun  shone  down  on  the  hot, 
white  pavement  of  the  streets  below,  the  cries  of  the  chil- 
dren at  play,  the  quivering  glare  of  the  blazing  noontide, 
as  he  sat  in  his  office  and  read  the  words  that  renounced 
him.  Twenty-seven  years  ago,  but  the  picture  was  engra- 
ven on  Hugh  Darcy's  brain,  never  to  be  blotted  out. 
Twenty-seven  years  ago,  and  when  the  fortunate  rival  had 
fallen  in  the  battle  of  life,  ten  years  later  ;  when  his  feeble- 
souled  wife  had  followed  him  to  the  grave,  Hugh  Darcy's 
revenge  upon  her  had  been  .o  step  forward  and  take  the 
child  of  that  marriage  to  his  heart  and  home  to  rear  him 
as  his  own  son,  to  make  his  will  in  his  favor,  leaving  him 
sole  heir  to  a  noble  inheritance. 

Laurence  Thorndyke  had  sown  his  wild  /""t:;.  Well, 
most  young  men  go  in  for  that  kind  of  agriculture,  and  the 
seed  sown  had  not  yet  begun  to  crop  up.  He  was  happily 
married,  and  done  for,  and  for  himself  Mr.  Darcy  meant 
to  keep  his  little  "  Jennie  "  with  him  always,  to  travel  about 
with  her  this  coming  summer,  and  leave  he*  a  '>:indhome 
portion  at  his  death.  "  For  of  course,"  said  Mr.  Darcy, 
"  she  will  forget  the  husband  she  has  lost,  and  make  some 
good  man  happy  after  I  am  gone." 

He  had  settled  her  little  romance  quite  to  suit  himself. 
She  had  crept  with  her  quiet,  gentle,  womanly  ways  into 
his  iinnost  heart — a  ve^-y  kindly  heart  in  spite  of  life's 
wear  and  te?.r  ;  very  kindly,  yet  with  a  stubborn  sense  of 
justice,  anr'  of  right  and  wrong  underlying  all.  Kindly, 
yet  terribly,  obstinately,  ur. forgiving  to  anything  like  im- 
morality, deception  or  dishonor. 

"  I  love  the  child  almost  better  than  Helen,"  he  thought 
sometimes.  "  I  don't  want  to  lose  her,  and  yet  I  should 
like  to  see  her  safely  she!<^ered  under  a  husband's  wing  be- 


"LAURENCE  THORNDYKEP 


173 


fore  I  go.  There's  Richard  Gilbert  now.  I've  often  meant 
to  introduce  him  to  her,  but  somehow  she  always  slips  out 
of  the  room  and  the  house  when  he  sends  up  his  card.  I 
wonder  if  he's  got  over  the  loss  of  that  girl  last  fall. 
Some  men  do  get  over  that  sort  of  thing  they  say.  I  hope 
Laurence  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Gilbert  suspected 
him,  I  know,  but  then — 'give  a  dog  a  bad  name  and  hang 
him.'  Yes,  my  little  Jennie  wouldn't  make  half  a  bad  wife 
for  Dick  Gilbert.  I'll  introduce  him  the  very  next  time  he 
comes." 

Mr.  Darcy  sits  before  his  study  fire  this  chill  afternoon 
alone.  Liston  left  some  hours  ago.  It  is  not  yet  dinner 
time,  and  his  companion — where  is  she  ?  He  looks  im- 
patiently around — while  he  took  his  afternoon  nap  she  has 
left  him.  He  listens  a  moment  to  the  wailing  voice  01  the 
wind,  sobbing  in  a  melancholy  way  about  the  house,  then 
reaches  forth  nervously,  and  rings  the  bell. 

"  Send  Mrs.  Liston  here,"  he  says  to  the  servant  who 
answers. 

This  gray  twilight  hour  is  haunted  for  him,  with  melan- 
choly flitting  faces,  dead  and  gone.  He  will  have  Mrs. 
Liston  in  to  sing  and  play  and  exorcise  the  ghosts.  No- 
body ever  sang  Scotch  songs  or  played  Scotch  melodies 
half  so  sweetly,  thinks  the  worn  old  man,  as  his  little 
companion. 

The  door  opens  and  she  enters.  Her  tread,  her  touch, 
her  garments,  are  always  soft  and  noiseless.  She  comes 
gliding  forward  in  the  gloaming,  not  unlike  a  ghost  herself. 
Her  pale  face  seems  almost  startlingly  pale  in  contrast  with 
the  black  dress  she  wears.  In  its  whiteness  her  great 
dusk  eyes  look  bigger  and  blacker  than  ever.  It  strikes 
Mr.  Darcy. 


174 


NOR  INK'S  REVENGE. 


"  Child,"  he  says,  "  how  pale  you  are.  Come  over  here 
and  let  me  look  at  you.  You  are  more  like  a  -spirit  of  the 
twilight  than  a  young  lady  of  tiie  period." 

He  draws  her  affectionately  to  him,  and  she  sinks  on 
her  knees  by  his  chair.  There  is  no  light  but  the  dull 
glow  of  the  fire  j  he  tilts  up  her  chin,  and  gazes  smilingly 
down  into  the  lovely  sombre  eyes. 

"  '  Oh,  fair,  pale  Margaret,'  "  he  quotes.  "  Little  one, 
what  is  it  ?  You  promised  to  tell  me  sometime.  Why  not 
to-night?" 

"  Why  not  to-night  ?  "  she  repeats.  "  To-night  be  it,  t'aen. 
But  first,  is  that  a  letter  on  the  table  ? " 

"  Oh,  by-the-by,  yes— I  nearly  forgot  all  about  it.  An- 
other letter  from  our  mated  turtle  doves  in  Florida.  1  see 
by  the  post-mark  they  are  in  Florida  now.  I  have  kept  it 
for  you  to  read,  as  usual." 

She  takes  it  quite  calmly;  she  knows  that  big,  bold 
chirography  well,  and  the  day  comes  back  to  her  when 
Mr.  Liston  brought  to  the  Chelsea  cottage  the  brief,  pitiless 
note  in  the  same  hand — her  death  warrant.  She  seats  her- 
self on  a  hassock  near  the  big  invalid  chair,  and  by  the 
light  of  the  fire  reads  Laurence  Thorndyke's  letter. 

It  is  the  gay  letter  of  a  happy  bridegroom  whose  bride 
bends  over  his  shoulder  smiling  while  he  writes.  He  tells 
of  their  travels,  of  how  well  -^nd  handsome  Helen  is  look- 
ing ;  that  in  another  month  for  ceriain  they  will  be  at 
home.  And  with  best  love  and  all  the  kisses  he  can 
spare  from  Nella,  he  is,  as  ever,  his  affectionate  nephew, 
Laurence  Thorndyke.  ^ 

She  finished  the  letter  and  laid  it  down. 
"  Coming  home,"  Mr.  Darcy  repeats.     "  Well,  I  am  al- 
ways glad  to  see  the  boy,  always  fond  of  Nella.     And  we 


»f 


■r'Ti.r-W^n'.;'-'!!-    •aMucsm* 


u 


«  LA  URENCE  THORN D  YKEP 


175 


will  all  go  to  Europe  together  in  May— you  to  take  care 
of  the  old  man,  my  dear,  and  help  him  laugh  at  the  turtle 
doves  billing  and  cooing.  And  in  sunny  France,  in  fair 
Italy,  we  will  see  if  we  cannot  bring  back  roses  to  these 
white  cheeks." 

The  dark  eyes  lift,  the  grave  young      'ce  rpeaks. 
"  Thank  you,"  she  says.     "  You  are  always  kind,  Mr. 
Darcy,  but  I  cannot  go." 
"Jennie!     Cannot  go?" 

"1  cannot  go  Mr.  Darcy.     I  am  sorry  to  leave  you; 
more  sorry  than  I  can  say,  but  you  must  get  another  at- 
tendant and  companion.     I  am  going  away." 
"  Mrs.  Listen  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  Mrs.  Liston— my  name  is  not  Jennie— I  am 
not  Mr.  Listen's  niece.  From  first  to  last  I  have  deceived 
you.  I  have  come  to  tell  you  the  truth  to-night,  although 
it  breaks  my  heart  to  see  you  angry.  I  will  tell  you  the 
truth,  and  then  you  will  see  that  I  must  go.  My  name  is 
not  Jane  Liston.     It  is  Norine  Bourdon." 

There  is  a  pause.  He  sits  looking  at  her,  astonishment, 
anger,  perplexity,  doubt  all  in  his  face,  and  yet  he  sees 
that  she  is  telling  the  truth.  And  Norine  Bourdon— where 
has  he  heard  that  name  before  ?  Norine  Bourdon !  A 
foreign-sounding  and  uncommon  name,  too.   Where  has  he 

heard  it  ? 

"  I  do  not  wish  you  to  blame  Mr.  Liston  too  much,"  the 
quiet  voice  goes  on.  "  He  is  to  blame,  for  he  suggested 
the  fraud,  but  I  was  ready  enough  to  close  with  it.  I  had 
not  a  friend  nor  a  home  in  the  world  that  I  dared  turn  to, 
and  I  could  not  face  life  alone.  So  I  came  here  under  a 
false  name,  false  in  everything,  and  broke  your  bread,  and 
took  your  money,  and  deceived  you.     I  am  not  what  you 


I'M  .IW 


176 


NORTIVE'S  REVENGE. 


think  me  ;  I  am  a  giil  who  has  been  lured  from  her  home, 
deceived  and  cast  off.  A  wiclced  wretch  who  fled  from 
her  friends,  who  betrayed  a  good  man's  trust,  who  promised 
to  marry  him,  and  who  ran  away  from  him  with  one 
who  betrayed  her  in  turn.  You  have  heard  of  me  before 
— heard  from  Richard  Gilbert  of  Narine  Bourdon." 

A  faint  exclamation  comes  from  his  lips. 

Yes,  yes,  yes,  he  sees  it  all.     This  is  that  girl — "  Norine 
Bourdon  !  "    He  remembers  the  odd  French  name  well  now. 

"  I  will  tell  you  my  story,  Mr.  Darcy — my  wicked  and 
shameful  story,  and  you  shall  turn  me  out  this  very  night 
if  you  chocse.  I  am  the  girl  your  friend,  Richard  Gilbert, 
honored  with  his  respect  and  love ;  whom  he  asked  in 
marriage.  I  loved  another  man,  a  younger,  handsomer 
man,  but  he  had  left  me,  forever,  I  thought,  and  wearied  of 
my  dull  country  life,  sad  and  disappointed,  I  accepted 
him.  The  man  I  loved  hated  Mr.  Gilbert.  Liston  will 
tell  you  why,  if  you  ask  him.  In  that  hatred  he  laid  a 
plan  of  revenge.  He  cared  nothing  for  me  ;  he  was  be- 
.trothed  to  a  beautiful  and  wealthy  lady  ;  I  was  but  the  poor 
little  fool  to  whom  a  wise  man  had  given  his  heart — what 
became  of  me  did  not  matter.  Three  days  before  my  wed- 
ding-day he  came  to  me  and  urged  me  to  fly  with  him. 
He  loved  me,  he  said  ;  he  would  make  me  his  wife  ;  he 
would  come  for  my  answer  the  next  night.  I  must  meet 
him  ;  I  must  go  with  him.  At  night,  when  they  all  slept, 
I  stole  from  the  house  to  meet  him ;  not  to  fly  with  him, 
the  good  God  knows — to  refuse  him,  to  forget  him,  to  keep 
to  my  duty  if  my  heart  broke  in  the  keeping.  He  had  a 
horse  and  carriage  waiting,  and — to  this  day  I  hardly  know 
how — he  made  me  enter  it,  and  drove  me  off.  I  cried  out 
for  help ;  it  was  too  late  ;  no  one  heard  me.     He  soothed 


"  LA  URENCE  THORND  VKE." 


i77 


me  with  his  specious  promises,  and  perhaps  I  was  not 
difficult  to  soothe.  It  was  too  late  to  go  back  ;  I  thought  he 
loved  me  and  went  on.  He  took  me  to  Boston.  There,  next 
morning  in  the  hotel,  without  witnesses,  we  were  married. 
A  man,  a  clergyman,  he  told  me,  came,  a  ceremony  of  some 
sort  was  gone  through,  we  were  pronounced  man  and  wife. 
"  He  took  me  with  him  to  a  cottage  he  had  engaged  by 
the  sea  shore.  For  three  weeks  he  remained  with  me 
there,  tired  to  death  of  me,  I  know  now.  Then  he  was 
summoned  to  New  York  to  his  home,  and  I  was  left.  Mr. 
Darcy,  he  never  came  back. 

"  I  waited  for  him  weeks  and  weeks — ah,  dear  Heaven  I 
what  weeks  those  were.  Then  the  truth  was  told  me. 
His  uncle's  servant  was  in  his  confidence.  I  was  deserted. 
I  had  never  been  his  wife,  not  for  one  hour.  The  man 
who  had  come  to  the  hotel  was  no  clergyman ;  he 
was  going  to  be  married  in  December  ;  I  was  to  go  back 
to  my  friends  and  trouble  him  no  more.  That  was  my 
fate.  I  had  been  betrayed  from  first  to  last,  and  he  had 
done  with  me  forever. 

"  Well,  that  is  more  than  six  months  ago.  I  don't  know 
whether  hearts  ever  break  except  in  books.  I  know  I  am 
living  still,  and  likely  to  live.  But  not  here.  I  have  de- 
ceived you,  Mr.'  Darcy,  but  I  tell  you  the  truth  to-night. 
And  to-night,  if  you  like,  I  will  go." 

He  rose  slowly  to  his  feet ;  swift,  dark  passion  in  his 
eyes — swift,  heavy  anger  knitting  his  shaggy  brows.  He 
held  to  the  arms  of  his  chair  and  looked  down  upon  her, 
his  face  set  hard  as  iron. 

"  Sit  there ! "  he  ordered.  "  Tell  me  the  scoundrel's  name." 

The  dark  eyes  looked  up  at  him  ;  the  gravely  quiet  voice 
spoke. 

"  His  name  is  Laurence  Thorndyke." 

8* 


■'^'rffsr^sssiss&f'^ 


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CHAPTER  XVII. 

A    LETTER    FROM     PARIS. 

iT  is  a  sunny  summer  afternoon.  The  New 
York  pavements  arc  blistering  in  the  heat, 
and  even  Broadway  looks  half  deserted.  Up- 
town, brown  stone  mansions  are  hermetically 
sealed  for  the  season,  the  "  salt  of  the  earth  "  are  drinking 
the  waters  at  Saratoga,  gazing  at  the  trembling  rapids  of 
Niagara,  or  disporting  themselves  on  the  beach  at  Long 
Branch.  The  workers  of  the  earth  still  burrow  in  their 
city  holes,  through  heat,  and  dust,  and  din,  and  glare,  and 
among  them  Richard  Gilbert. 

He  sits  alone  this  stifling  August  afternoon,  in  his  down- 
town office.  The  green  shades  that  do  their  best  to  keep 
out  the  white  blinding  glare  and  fail,  are  closed.  The 
windows  stand  wide,  but  no  grateful  breeze  steals  in.  He 
sits  at  his  desk  in  a  loose  linen  coat,  multitudinous  docu- 
ments labelled,  scattered,  and  tied  up  before  him.  But  it 
is  a  document  that  does  not  look  legal,  that  is  absorbing 
his  attention.  It  is  a  letter,  and  the  envelope,  lying  beside 
him  on  the  floor,  bears  the  French  postmark.  He  sits 
and  re-reads  with  a  very  grave  and  thoughtful  face.  "  It 
is  queer,"  he  is  thinking,  "  uncommonly  queer.  She  must 
be  an  adventuress,  and  a  clever  one.  Of  course  she  has 
wheedled  him  into  making  a  new  will,  and  the  lion's  share 
will  go  to  herself.  Hum!  I  wonder  what  Thorndyke 
will  say.     Come  in." 


A  LETTER  FROM  PARTS.  179 

He  pushes  the  paper  away,  and  answers  a  discreet  tap  at 
the  door. 

"  Lady  and  gentleman  to  see  you,  sir,"  announces  a  clerk, 
and  the  lady  and  gentleman  enter. 

"  Hope  we  don't  disturb  you,  squire,"  says  the  gentle- 
man, and  Mr.  Gilbert  rises  suddenly  to  his  feet.  "Me 
and  Hetty,  we  thought  as  how  it  would  keinder  look  bad 
to  go  back  without  droppin'  in.  Hot  day,  squire — now 
ain't  it?" 

"  My  dear  Miss  Kent— my  dear  Uncle  Reuben,  this  is 
an  unlooked-for  pleasure.  You  in  the  city,  and  in  the 
blazing  month  of  August.     What  tempted  you?" 

"  Well,  now,  blamed  if  I  know.  Only  Hetty  here,  she's 
bin  sorter  ailin'  lately,  and  old  Dr.  Perkins,  he  said  a 
change  would  do  her  a  heap  of  good,  and  Hetty,  she'd 
never  seen  New  York,  and  so — that's  about  it.  Squire  ! 
we've  had  a  letter." 

He  says  it  abruptly,  staring  very  hard  straight  before 
him.  Aunt  Hetty  fidgets  in  her  chair,  and  Richard  Gil- 
bert's pale,  worn  face  grows  perhaps  a  shade  paler. 

"  A  letter,"  he  repeats  ;  "  from  her  i  " 

"  From  her.  Two  letters,  if  it  comes  to  that.  One  from 
this  here  town  last  Christmas — t'other  from  foreign  parts 
a  week  ago.  I  want  to  show  'em  to  you.  Here's  number 
one." 

He  takes  a  letter  in  an  envelope  from  his  pocket,  and 
hands  it  to  the  lawyer.  It  seems  almost  a  life-time  ago, 
but  the  thrill  that  goes  through  Richard  Gilbert  at  sight 
of  that  writing  still ! 

"  Last  Christmas,"  he  says  glancing  at  the  postmark,  a 
shade  of  reproach  in  his  tone.  "  And  you  nevtir  told 
me!" 


ll!J»-i.lJ!fA.j4i: 


i8o 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


"  I  never  told  you,  squire.  It  ain't  a  pleasant  sort  o' 
tiling  to  talit  about,  least  of  all  to  you.  She  doesn't  de- 
serve a  thought  from  you,  Mr.  Gilbert — " 

The  lawyer  stopped  him  with  a  gesture. 

"  I  have  forgiven  her  long  ago,"  he  answers ;  "  she 
did  not  care  for  me.  Iktter  she  should  fly  from  me  before 
marriage  than  after.  Thank  Heaven  she  is  alive  to  write 
at  all." 

He  opens  the  note.     It  is  very  short. 

"  Dear  Aunt  Hetty — Dear  Uncle  Reuben — Dear  Uncle 
Joe — if  you  will  let  me,  unworthy  as  I  am,  still  call  you 
by  the  dear  old  names.  This  is  the  third  time  I  have 
written  since  I  left  home,  but  I  have  reason  to  think  you 
never  received  the  first  two  letters.  I  wrote  then,  as  I 
write  now,  to  beg  you  on  my  knees  for  forgiveness.  Oh  I 
to  see  your  dear  faces  once  more — to  look  again  on  the 
peaceful  old  home.  But  it  cannot  be.  What 'shall  I  say 
of  myself  ?  I  am  well — I  am  busy — I  am  as  happy  as  I  de- 
serve, or  can  ever  expect  to  be.  I  am  safely  sheltered  in  a 
good  man's  house.  I  have  been  to  blame,  but  oh,  not  so 
much  as  you  think.  Some  day  I  will  come  to  you  and 
tell  you  all.    Yours,  Norine. 

"  P.  S. — He  is  well.  I  have  seen  him  since  I  came  to 
New  York  twice,  though  he  has  not  seen  me.  May  the 
good  God  bless  him  and  forgive  me.  N.  K.  B. 

Richard  Gilbert  read  that  postscript  and  turned  away  his 
head.  He  had  been  near  her,  then,  twice,  and  had  never 
known  it.  And  she  cared  for  him  enough  to  pray  for  him  still. 

"  Here's  the  other,"  said  Reuben  Kent,  "  that  came  a 
week  ago." 

He  laid  a  large,  foreign-looking  letter  on  the  desk,  with 
many  stamps,  and  an  Italian  post-mark. 


A  LETTER  FROAf  PARIS.  |8| 

"  From  Florence,"  the  lawyer  said  ;  "how  can  she  have 
got  there  ? " 

It  was  as  short  as  the  first. 

"  She  was  well.  Foreign  travel  had  done  wonders  for 
her  health  and  spirits.  She  was  with  kind  friends.  Im- 
possible to  say  when  she  would  return,  but  always,  whether 
at  home  or  abroad,  she  was  their  loving  niece,  Norine 

IkjUKDON." 

That  was  all.  Very  gravely  the  lawyer  handed  them 
back. 

"  Well,  squire,"  Mr.  Kent  said,  "  what  do  you  think  } " 

"  That  I  am  unutterably  glad,  and  thankful  to  know  she 
is  alive  and  well,  and  with  friends  who  are  good  to  her. 
It  might  have  been  worse — it  might  have  been  worse." 

"  You  believe  these  letters,  then  ? " 

•"Undoubtedly  I  believe  them.  She  is  travelling  as  com- 
panion, no  doubt,  to  some  elderly  lady.  Such  situations 
crop  up  occasionally.  I  see  she  gives  you  no  address  to 
which  to  write. " 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  should  care  to  write  if  she  did. 
Vou  may  forgive  her,  squire,  but  by  the  Lord  Harry  1  / 
aint  got  that  far  yet.  If  she  didn't  run  away  with  young 
Thorndyke,  what  did  she  run  away  at  all  for  ?  " 

"  Because  she  cared  so  little  for  me,  that  facing  the 
world  alone  was  easier  than  becoming  my  wife.  We  won't 
talk  of  it,  Mr.  Kent.     How  long  do  you  remain  in  town  ?" 

Uncle  Reuben  rose. 

"  We  go  to-day,  thank  fortin'.  How  you,  all  of  you,  man- 
age to  live  in  such  a  Babel  beats  me  1  Can't  you  strike 
work,  Mr.  Gilbert,  and  run  down  to  see  us  this  blazin' 
summer  weather  ? " 

Mr.  Gilbert  shook  his  head  with  a  smile. 


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NOR  INK'S  REVENGE. 


"  I  am  afraid  not.  I  am  very  busy ;  I  find  hard  work 
does  me  good.  Well,  good-by,  old  friend.  I  am  sincerely 
glad  to  have  read  those  letters — sincerely  glad  she  is  safe 
and  well." 

Then  they  were  gone,  and  Richard  Gilbert  sat  down  alone 
in  the  hot,  dusty  office.  But  the  dusty  office  faded  away, 
and  in  its  place  the  rich  greenness  of  meadows  came,  the 
sweet,  new-mown  hay  scented  the  air,  green  trees  and 
bright  flowers  surrounded  him  instead  of  dry-as-dust  legal 
tomes.  And  fairer,  brighter,  sweeter  than  all,  came  float- 
ing back  the  exquisite  face  of  Norine,  the  dark  eyes  gleam- 
ing, the  white  teeth  sparkling,  the  loose  hair  blowing,  the 
soft  mouth  laughing.  And  once  she  had  promised  to  be 
his  wife  ! 

"Mr.  Thorndyke,  sir?" 

The  voice  of  his  clerk  aroused  him.  The  fairy  vision 
faded  and  fled,  and  Richard  Gilbert,  in  his  grimy  office, 
looked  grimly  up  into  the  face  of  Laurence  Thorndyke. 

"  How  do,  Gilbert? "  says  Mr.  Thorndyke,  nodding  eas- 
ily ;  "  hope  I  don't  intrude.  Was  loafing  down  town,  and 
thought  I  would  just  drop  in  and  see  if  there  was  any  news 
yet  from  the  old  man." 

Mr.  Thorndyke  has  lost  none  of  the  easy  insouciance 
that  sits  upon  him  so  naturally  and  becomingly.  He  is  in 
faultless  Broadway-afternoon-promenade  costume,  but  he 
is  not  quite  as  good-looking  as  he  used  to  be.  His  hand- 
some face  looks  worn  and  tired,  dissipated,  and  a  trifle 
reckless,  and  the  old  flavor  of  wine  and  cigars  hangs  about 
him  still.  He  draws  a  chair  towards  him,  and  sits  astride 
upon  it  his  arms  folded  over  the  back. 

"  The  old  man  ? "  Mr.  Gilbert  repeats,  still  more  grimly, 
"  You  refer  to  Mr.  Darcy,  I  presume  ? " 


A   LETTER  FROM  PARIS. 


183 


"Who  else.  To  Darcy,  of  course — and  be  hanged  to 
him.     Any  news  yet  ? " 

"  There  is  news,  Mr.  Thorndyke.  Will  you  be  kind 
enough,  in  talking  of  my  old  and  valued  friend, — and  yours 
once, — to  speak  a  little  more  respectfully?" 

"  A  little  more  fiddle-dee-dee  I  "  retorts  Mr.  Thorndyke. 
"  Confound  the  old  bloke,  I  say  again !  What  business 
has  he  cutting  up  the  way  he  has  cut  up  ever  since  my 
marriage  ?  I  did  everything  I  could  to  please  him — I 
leave  it  to  yourself,  Gilbert,  I  did  everything  I  could  to 
please  him.  He  wanted  me  to  marry  Helen.  Well,  haven't 
1  married  Helen  ?  He  wanted  us  to  go  with  him  to 
Europe  in  May.  Didn't  we  come  back  from  the  South 
in  April,  to  go  with  him  in  May  as  per  agreement  ?  And 
what  do  we  find  ?  Why,  that  the  venerable  muddle-head 
has  started  off  on  his  own  hook,  with  old  Liston  and  some 
girl  that  he's  taken  in — adopted,  or  that  bosh — a  niece  of 
Liston's.  Started  off  without  a  word — without  one  blessed 
word  of  excuse  or  explanation  to  Helen  or  me.  That's 
four  months  ago,  and  not  a  letter  since.  Then  you  talk 
of  respect  1  By  Jove,  sir,  I  consider  myself — Helen  con- 
siders herself,  shamefully  treated.  And  here  we  are  broil- 
ing alive  in  New  York  this  beastly  hot  weather,  instead 
of  doing  the  White  Mountains,  or  Newport,  or  somewhere 
else,  where  a  man  can  get  a  breath  of  air,  waiting  for  a 
letter  that  never  comes.  You've  heard  from  him,  you  say 
— now  what  has  the  old  duffer  to  say  for  himself  ? " 

"  He  has  nothing  to  say  for  himself.  I  have  not  heard 
from  him.  I  said  I  had  heard  0/  him.  How  is  Mrs. 
Thorndyke  ? " 

"  Well  enough  in  health — devilish  cross  in  temper.  The 
old  story — I'm  a  wretch,  drink  too  m-ich,  gamble  too  much, 


1 84 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


spend  too  much,  keep  too  late  hours.  Tell  you  what, 
Gilbert,  matrimony's  a  fraud.  Whilst  I  thought  Nellie  was 
the  old  man's  pet  and  I  was  his  heir,  it  was  all  well 
enough  ;  blessed  if  I  know  what  to  think  now.  Are  you 
going  to  tell  me  what  you  have  heard  </ him  ?  " 

In  silence,  and  with  a  face  of  contemptuous  disgust,  Mr. 
Gilbert  takes  up  the  French  letter,  points  to  a  column,  and 
watches  him.  This  is  what  Mr.  Thorndyke,  with  a  face  of 
horror,  reads: 

"  I  presume  you  know  that  your  old  friend  and  client, 
Hugh  Darcy,  died  here  two  days  ago.  The  bulk  of  his 
fortune,  I  hear,  is  left  to  the  beautiful  young  widow,  Mrs. 
Liston,  whom  he  had  legally  adopted.  She  takes  his 
name,  and  with  her  own  rare  loveliness,  and  Darcy's  half 
million,  Mrs.  Liston-Darcy  is  destined  to  make  no  ordinary 
sensation  when  she  returns  to  New  York." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

AFTER     FOUR     YEARS.. 

BRITING  again — eternally  writing  !  One  would 
think  it  was  Mrs.  Jellyby.  Confound  the 
scribbling,  I  say.  Do,  for  Heaven's  sake,  put 
it  down,  Nellie,  and  let  us  have  some  dinner ! " 
Thus — impatiently,  angrily — Mr.  Laurence  Thorndyke 
to  the  wife  of  his  bosom.  It  is  five  o'clock,  of  a  brilliant 
summer  afternoon,  a  stiflingly  close  and  oppressive  after- 
noon, in  the  shabby  street,  in  the  shabby  tenement  where- 
in Mr.  and  Mrs.  Thorndyke  dwell.  The  scene  is  a  dingy 
parlor — ingrain  carpet,  cane  chairs,  fly-blown  wall  paper, 
and  a  lady  in  a  soiled  and  torn  wrapper  discovered  at  a 
table  rapidly  writing.  A  child  of  two  years,  a  little  boy, 
with  Laurence  Thorndyke's  own  blue  eyes  and  curling 
locks,  toddles  about  the  floor.  In  a  basket  cradle  there 
is  coiled  up  a  little  white  ball  of  a  baby.  The  lady  jogs 
this  cradle  with  her  foot  as  she  writes.  A  lady,  young  and 
handsome,  though  sadly  faded,  her  profusion  of  light  hair 
all  towsy  and  uncombed,  her  brows  knit  in  one  straight 
frowning  line.  She  pauses  in  her  work  for  a  second  to 
glance  up — anything  but  a  loving  glance,  by  the  by — and 
to  answer : 

"  I  don't  know  Mrs.  Jellyby,  Mr.  Thorndyke.  Did  she 
write  to  keep  herself  and  her  children  from  starving,  I 
wonder,  while  her  husband  gambled  and  drank  their  sub- 


:m 


186 


NORTNE'S  REVENGE. 


stance  ?  As  to  dinner— couldn't  you  manage  to  get  that 
meal  in  the  places  you  spend  your  days  and  nights  ?  There 
is  some  bread  and  butter  on  the  kitchen  table— some  tea 
on  the  kitchen  stove.  Joanna  will  give  them  to  you  if 
you  like.  You  are  not  likely  to  find  champagne  and  orto- 
lans in  a  tenement  house." 

And  then,  the  pretty  lips  setting  themselves  in  a  tight, 
unpleasant  line,  Mrs.  Thorndyke  goes  back  to  her  work. 

She  writes  very  rapidly,  in  a  bold,  firm  hand,  heedless 
of  the  child  who  prattles  and  clings  to  her  skirts.  They 
are  law  papers  she  is  copying,  in  that  clear,  legible  chiro- 
graphy. 

For  in  three  years  it  has  come  to  this.  Four  tiny  ten- 
ement rooms  in  a  shabby,  crowded  street,  soiled  and  torn 
wrappers,  bread  and  tea  dinners,  one  small  grimy  maid  of 
all  work,  a  drunkard  and  gambler  instead  of  her  brilliant 
bridegroom,  and  law  papers  to  copy  all  day  and  far  into 
the  night,  for  the  friend  ot  her  girlhood,  Mr.  Richard  Gil- 
bert, to  "keep  the  wolf  from  the  door." 

"  D your  catlap?  "  says  Mr.  Thorndyke,  with  a  scowl 

of  disgust.  "  I  say,  Nellie,  do  stop  that  infernal  scribble, 
scrabble,  and  send  out  for  oysters,  I  haven't  eaten  a 
mouthful  to-day— I  had  such  a  splitting  headache  this 
morning,  and  I  haven't  a  sou  left." 

"  And  how  many  sous  do  you  suppose  /have  left  ? "  the 
wife  demands  with  flashing  eyes.  "  I  paid  the  landlord 
the  rent  to-day,  and  I  have  to  buy  coal  to-morrow.  Oys- 
ters !  "  she  laughs,  scornfully.  "  I  have  forgotten  what  they 
are.  As  to  your  headache — probably  if  you  had  drank 
less  whiskey  last  night,  you  would  not  have  suffered  so 
severely  this  morning.  What  there  is  in  the  house  you 
are  welcome  to.     I  shall  send  for  nothing." 


I 


I 


AFTER  FOUR   YEARS. 


187 


The  lips  tighten  still  more — she  goes  resolutely  on  with 
her  writing. 

Mr.  Thorndyke  relieves  his  mind  by  an  oath  and  a  growl, 
as  he  flings  himself  heavily  upon  a  lounge.  His  wife 
writes  on  and  pays  no  attention.  She  has  grown  accus- 
tomed to  be  sworn  at — it  hardly  affects  her  now. 

He  lies  and  watches  her  with  gloomy  eyes.  Those  tliree 
years  have  changed  him  deepening  the  reckless,  dissipa- 
ted look  worn  and  aged  him  strangely.  Handsome  he  is 
still,  but  haggard,  the  brilliant  eyes  dimmed  and  bloodshot, 
the  hand  tremulous,  an  habitual  scowl  on  his  brow, 

"  What  does  Gilbert  pay  you  for  that  bosh  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  About  three  times  as  much  as  he  would  pay  any  one 
else.  You  see  he  knew  my  father,  and  doesn't  care  to  look 
on  and  see  my  father's  daughter  starve.  Be  kind  enough 
not  to  talk  to  me,  Mr.  Thorndyke — I  don't  wish  to  make 
mistakes." 

"  Day  has  been  when  you  liked  to  have  me  talk  to  you 
well  enough,"  retorts,  Mr.  Thorndyke,  with  another  sullen 
oath. 

"Yes,  I  was  a  fool — no  need  to  remind  n  e  of  it.  No 
one  can  regret  it  more  than  I  do.  Happily  that  day  is 
past.     You  have  cured  me  signally  of  my  folly." 

There  is  a  pause.  Mrs.  Thorndyke  immovably  writes. 
Mr.  Thorndyke  lies  sullenly  and  looks  on.     At  last — 

"  She  has  come,"  he  says,  abruptly,, 

His  wife  lifts  her  eyes. 

"  Mrs  Liston  Darcy — devil  take  her  !  And  I  am  a  going 
to  see  her  to-night !  " 

Still  that  silent  questioning  gaze, 

"  I  met  Allison  out  there — he  hasn't  cut  me  if  all  the  rest 
have ;  and  she  is  to  be  at  a  party  at  his  house.    I  am  going." 


*"ifflf,,5!fc<i«<n«B*i«SH 


,j;^j^.y»-t.^7-Tg.-rj-,T"i-Jj.-i:.afM 


1 88 


NOR/NE'S  REVENGE. 


"  May  I  ask  why  ?  What  can  you  possibly  have  to  say 
to  Mr.  Darcy's  heiress  "  ? 

"  I  shall  see  her,  at  least.  They  tell  me  she  is  pretty. 
I  must  own  I  always  had  a  weakness  for  pretty  and  pleasant 
women.     I  must  own  also  I  never  see  one  at  home." 

Her  eyes  flash  at  the  sneer. 

"  I  am  quite  aware,  Mr.  Thorndyke,  of  your  predilec- 
tion for  pretty  women.  Haven't  you  paid  rather  dearly 
though  for  the  fancy  ?  Was  the  brief  society  of  Miss  Lucy 
West  and  Miss  Norine  Bourdon  sufficient  compensation 
for  the  loss  of  a  fortune  .' " 

He  rises  to  his  feet,  his  face  flushing  dark,  angry  red. 

"  You  know  that  ? "  he  exclaims. 

She  laughs  contemptuously. 

"  I  know  that ;  I  know  much  more  than  that.  You  did 
not  show  me  the  letter  left  by  Mr.  Darcy  for  you  at  his 
death,  but  you  did  not  destroy  it.  That  letter  I  have  read. 
He  states  his  reasons  for  disinheriting  you  plainly  enough, 
does  he  not  ?  And  for  my  part,  all  I  have  to  say  is,  served 
you  right." 

She  rises,  gathers  her  papers  together,  binds  them  up, 
and  without  looking  at  him,  sweeps  from  the  room. 

"Joanna!"  she  calls,  "look  after  Laurie  and  baby.  I 
am  going  down  town." 

She  dresses  herself  hastily,  and  in  her  cheap  hat  and 
muslin  dress,  manages  somehow  to  look  stylish  and  dis- 
tinguished still.  She  takes  an  omnibus,  rides  to  Wall 
street,  and  enters  Mr.  Gilbert's  office. 

Mr.  Gilbert  receives  her  with  cordial  kindness,  takes  the 
papers,  glances  over  them,  pronounces  them  well  done, 
and  gives  her  two  crisp  five-dollar  greenbacks.  The  color 
comes  into  her  pale  cheeks. 


AFTER  FOUR   YEARS. 


189 


"  You  pay  me  so  much  more  than  the  copying  is  worth," 
she  falters.  "Oh,  Mr.  Gilbert,  good,  kind,  faithful  friend, 
what  would  become  of  me  and  my  babies  but  for  you  ? " 

He  stops  her  with  a  quick  gesture. 

"  Hush  1  not  one  cent  more  than  the  work  is  justly  worth. 
And  all  is  gone  then,  Mrs.  Thorndyke  ?  " 

"  All !  all  I  "  she  says,  drearily  ;  "  long  ago." 

•*  I  know  that  your  marriage  portion  was  squandered  the 
first  year,  but  ?4r.  Darcy  left  you  ten  thousand  dollars  at 
his  death.  It  was  left  to  you — he  could  not  touch  it.  You 
should  have  kept  that." 

"  Should  have  kept  it !  He  could  not  touch  it !  "  She 
laughs  bitterly.  ''  My  dear  Mr.  Gilbert,  don't  you  know 
that  a  married  woman  can  be  kicked  or  kissed  into  any- 
thing? I  will  do  Mr.  Thorndyke  the  justice  to  say  he 
tried  both  methods  while  there  was  a  dollar  left.  If  it 
were  not  for  my  children  I  would  have  left  him  long  ago — 
if  it  were  not  for  them  I  could  wish  I  were  dead,  Mr. 
Gilbert."  She  lays  her  hand  upon  his  arm  and  looks  up 
into  his  face  with  blue,  glittering  eyes.  "  I  have  read  the 
letter  Mr.  Darcy  wrote  him  before  he  died." 

"You  have.*"  the  lawyer  says,  startled. 

"  I  know  the  story  of  Norine  Bourdon.  Oh,  Mr.  Gilbert 
if  you  were  not  more  angel  than  man  you  would  let  Lau- 
rence Thorndyke's  wife  and  children  starve  before  your 
eyes  I " 

"  Hush !  "  he  says  again  huskily,  "  for  pity's  sake, 
Nellie.  I  only  wish  you  would  take  the  money  without 
the  work.  The  betrayer  of  a  loving  and  innocent  girl  is 
in  the  hands  of  God — there  I  leave  him.  But  for  you — do 
you  not  know  that  Mrs.  Liston-Darcy  has  made  a  proposal 
to  me  for  you  ? " 


a 


190 


NORWE'S  REVENGE. 


"  For  me  ?  No.  I  know  that  she  has  arrived,  that  is  all. 
You  have  seen  her,  then  ? " 

"  Not  yet.  Slie  is  coming  to-day;  I  expect  her  every 
moment.  She  sent  me  a  note  telling  me  of  it.  It  is  this: 
when  your  life  with  your  husl)iind  becomes  unendurable — 
when  he  forces  you  to  leave  him,  she  is  instructed  to  pro- 
vide for  you  and  your  children.  It  was  Mr.  Darcy's  wish 
— it  is  hers.  A  iiome  and  a  competence  are  yours  any  day 
on  that  condition." 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door, 

"Mrs.  Liston-Darcy,  sir,"  announced  the  clerk. 

"  I  will  go,"  Helen  said,  rising  hastily.  "  The  day  when 
I  shall  be  glad  to  accept  Mrs.  Darcy's  offer  may  not  be 
far  distant.  I  cannot  meet  her  now.  You  will  send  me 
more  work  to-morrow  ?  Thank  you  a  thousand  times,  and 
good-by." 

She  flitted  from  the  room.  In  the  outer  office  sat  a  lady 
dressed  in  a  black  silk  walking  costume,  and  wearing  a 
close  veil  of  black  lace.  The  next  instant  Mrs.  Thorn- 
dyke  was  in  the  street,  and  Mrs.  Darcy  was  being  ushered 
into  Mr.  Gilbert's  sanctum. 

He  looked  at  her  curiously.  Rather  tall,  slender,  grace- 
ful, elegant,  that  he  saw,  but — what  was  there  about  her 
that  so  suddenly  made  his  pulses  leap  ? 

Still  veiled,  she  sat  down. 

"  I  am  a  little  late  for  my  appointment,"  she  began  ;  "  I 
was  unexpectedly  detained.  I  have  not  kept  you  waiting, 
I  hope  ? " 

He  turned  pale — he  sat  quite  silent.  He  heard  the 
voice,  but  not  the  words  :  his  eyes  were  riveted  upon  the 
veil.     Who  waa  this  woman  ? 

"  Mr.  Gilbert,"  she  said,  falteringly, "  I  see  you  know  me." 


AFTER  FOUR   YEARS. 


'91 


She  lifted  her  veil,  and  sat  before  him  revealed — Noriiie. 

Norine  I  After  four  years— Norine.  A  gray,  ashen  pallor 
came  over  his  face  even  to  his  lips.  She  trembled  and 
shrank  before  his  gaze;  she  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands  and  turned  away. 

"  Forgive  me  1 "  she  said,  brokenly.  "  Oh,  forgive  me  I 
If  you  knew  how  I  have  suffered,  indeed  you  might." 

He  put  his  hand  to  his  head  in  a  dazeil  w.ay  for  a 
second.  Then,  with  a  sort  of  shake,  he  aroused  himself 
to  every-d.iy  life  .igain. 

"  Norine,"  he  said,  "  is  it  indeed  you  ?  Little  Norine  I 
They  told  me  it  was  Mrs.  Liston-Darcy." 

"It  is  Mrs,  Darcy.  I  am  Hugh  Darcy's  adopted 
daughter." 

He  stared  at  her  bewildered. 

"  You!  Her  name  was  Jane  Liston." 

"  Her  name  was  Norine  Bourdon.  There  w.is  no  Jane 
Liston.  That  was  the  name  under  which  I  was  first  intro- 
duced into  Mr.  Darcy's  house,  by  which  I  had  been  known 
to  the  few  of  Mr.  Darcy's  friends  whom  I  met,  and,  to 
save  endless  inquiries,  it  was  the  name  published  from 
first  to  last.  Mr.  Darcy  knew  all  my  story,  knew  all 
about  me.  But  you,  Mr.  Gilbert— it  is  very  late  in  the 
day  to  ask  your  forgiveness  for  the  great  wrong  I  did  you 
four  years  ago,  but  from  my  heart  I  do  ask  it." 

She  clasped  her  hands  together  with  the  old  gesture 

the  dusky  eyes  filled  and  brimmed  over.  But  if  the  famil- 
iar gesture  moved  him,  if  the  tears  touched  him,  Richard 
Gilbert  did  not  show  it. 

"I  forgave  you  long  ago,  Mrs.  Darcy,"  he  said,  very 
coldly :  "  pray  do  not  think  of  me  at  all,  and  accept  my 
congratulations  upon  your  great  accession  of  fortune." 


-t|; 


193 


NOKLVICX  RElT.XCi:. 


Her  head  drnppi'd,  her  checks  (hishod.  Those  three 
years  had  tli:iiij;ed  her  into  a  l)Laiiliful,  self-possessed, 
calm-eyed  woman  ;  but  her  faltering  voice,  her  drooping 
head,  Iier  downcast  eyes  were  very  luimble  now. 

"  I  did  wrong — wrong  too  great  for  forgiveness  ;  but  if 
suffering  can  atone  for  sin,  then  surely  I  have  atoned. 
Let  me  tell  you  the  story  of  that  bitter  time.  It  is  your 
due,  and  mine." 

He  bent  his  head.  With  lips  compressed  and  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  desk  before  him,  he  listened  while  she  faltered 
forth  her  confession. 

"  I  had  no  thought  of  going  that  night  when  I  left  the 
house.  Oh  !  believe  this  if  you  can,  Mr.  Gilbert — no 
thought,  as  Heaven  hears  me,  of  flying  with  him.  I  was 
in  the  carriage  and  far  away,  it  seems  to  me,  before  I  real- 
ized it;  and  then — listening  to  his  false  words  and  promises 
— it  seemed  too  late  to  turn  back,  and  I  went  on." 

She  told  him  the  story  of  the  after-time — of  all — truth- 
fully and  earnestly,  up  to  the  night  of  her  confession  to 
Mr.  Darcy. 

"  He  was  like  a  man  beside  himself  with  fury,"  she  said. 
"  Liston  came  to  indorse  my  words  and  tell  the  story  of 
Lucy  West.  Then  he  swore  a  mighty  oath  that  he  would 
never  look  upon  Laurence  Thorndyke's  face  again.  So, 
without  a  word,  we  went  away — he  and  I,  and  Liston.  No 
father  could  be  kinder,  no  friend  truer.  I  believe  the  blow 
hastened  his  end.  We  went  to  France,  to  Italy.  All  the 
time  he  was  failing.  When  he  knew  he  must  die,  he  told 
me  what  he  intended — he  would  make  me  his  daughter 
legally  and  leave  me  all. 

"  Mr.  Gilbert,  I  had  vowed  within  myself  to  be  revenged 
upon  Laurence  Thorndyke  sooner  or  later.    This  was  the 


A 


tshWMC." 


/ 


AFTER  FOUR    YEARS. 


193 


bL'ginninji;  of  my  rcvenpc.  He  imulL  liis  will,  Iciiviiijr  all 
to  me,  except  ten  thousand  dollais  to  llfleii  'i'liorndyke, 
and  an  annuity  to  Liston.     Three  days  after  he  died. 

"  Wiiat  came  after,  you  know — how  Laurence  Thorndyke, 
with  all  his  might,  sought  to  have  that  will  set  .iside,  and 
how  signally  he  failed.  Mr.  Darcy  gave  his  reasons  to  you 
and  to  him  plainly  and  clearly.  For  his  own  crimes  he 
was  disinherited.     Mr.  Darcy's  fortune  was,  and  is,  mine. 

"  For  the  rest,  these  three  years  I  have  spent  wandering 
over  Europe.  I  have  come  home  to  remain  this  summer 
and  winter,  then  I  gi.  back.  I  have  come,  too,  to  ask  your 
forgiveness  and  theirs  down  at  home.  Mr.  Gilbert — it  is 
more  than  I  ought  to  ask,  but, — will  you  not  say,  '  I  par- 
don you' ? " 

She  held  out  her  hands  imploringly,  her  eyes  full  of  tears. 
He  took  them  in  his  and  clasped  them  for  a  moment,  look- 
ing straight  into  her  eyes. 

"  With  all  my  heart,  Norlne  !  With  all  my  heart  I  wish 
you  well  and  happy  ! ' " 

Mr.  Allison's  house  is  a  stately  up-town  mansion,  brown 
stone,  stucco,  and  elegance  generally ;  and  Mr.  Allison's 
house  is  all  alight  and  alive  to-night.  Mrs.  Allison  gives 
a  reception,  and  fair  women  and  brave  men  muster  strong  ; 
and  fairest,  where  all  are  more  or  less  fair,  is  the  youthful 
and  wealthy  heiress  of  old  Hugh  Darcy. 

Among  the  very  latest  arrivals  comes  Mr.  I>aurence 
Thorndyke.  Time  has  been  when  bright  eyes  brightened, 
fair  cheeks  flushed,  and  delicate  pulses  leaped  at  his  com- 
ing. That  day  is  over.  Time  has  also  been  when  among 
all  the  golden  youth  of  New  York  none  were  more 
elegant,  more  faultless  of  attire,  than  Laurence  Thorndyke. 


194 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


That  day  also  is  over.  Time  has  been  when  the  most  ex- 
clusive, most  recherche  doors  of  Fifth  avenue  flew  gladly 
open  at  his  approach.  That  day,  likewise,  is  over.  The 
places  that  knew  him,  know  him  no  more  ;  he  is  an  outcast 
and  a  Bohemian  ;  he  drinks,  he  gambles,  he  is  poor ;  his 
coat  is  gray  at  the  seams  ;  bistre  circles  surround  his  eyes  ; 
his  haggard,  handsome  face  ttlls  the  stoiy  of  his  life.  Yet 
the  old  elegance  and  old  fascination  of  manner,  linger 
still.  People  rather  stare  to  see  him  here.  Mrs.  Alli- 
son frowns.  She  has  flirted  desperately  with  him 
'•  ages  "  ago ;  but  really  bygones  should  be  bygones,  and  Mr. 
Thorndyke  has  gone  to  the  dogs  in  so  pronounced  a  man- 
ner, and  been  disinherited  for  some  dreadful  doings,  and, 
really  and  truly,  the  line  must  be  drawn  somewhere,  and 
it  is  inexcusable  in  Mr.  Allison  to  have  asked  him  at  all. 

"  No  one  invites  him  now,"  Mrs.  Allison  says,  indignant- 
ly. "  Both  he  and  Helen  are  socially  extinct.  They  say 
she  takes  in  sewing,  and  lives  in  a  dreadful  tenement  house 
away  over  by  the  East  River — and  with  dear  Mrs.  Liston- 
Darcy  here  and  everything  !  Of  course  it  can't  be  pleasant 
for  them  to  meet.  He  contested  the  will — if  he  should 
make  a  scene  to-night ! — good  heavens  !  No  doubt  he  is 
half-tipsy — they  say  he  always  is  half-tipsy — and  look  at 
his  dress !  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself,  Arthur 
Allison,  for  asking  him  !  " 

"  Couldn't  help  it,  Hattie — ^give  you  my  word  now,"  re- 
sponds Arthur  meekly ;  "  he  as  good  as  asked  me  to  ask 
him,  when  he  heard  Mrs.  Darcy  was  coming.  And  he  wants 
to  be  introduced,  and  I've  promised,  and  there's  no  u^e 
malang  a  fuss  now.  He  isn't  tipsy,  and  I  don't  believe 
there  will  be  a  scene.  I'll  introduce  him  at  once;  the 
sooner  it's  over,  the  better." 


^ 


•  '-ftftrf-jwatito^^^-v 


AFTER  FOUR   YEARS. 


195 


He  goes  off  uneasily,  and  leads  Mr.  Thorndyke  into  an 
inner  room,  where  a  lady  sits  at  the  piano,  singing.  A 
lady  elegantly  dressed  in  white  silk,  and  violet  trimmings, 
with  a  white  perfumery  rose  in  her  black  hair.  Her  face? 
is  averted — Mr.  Thorndyke  glares  vindictively  at  the  woman 
who  has  ousted  him  out  of  a  fortune.  She  is  a  beautiful 
singer,  and  somehow — somehow,  the  sweet  powerful  con- 
tralto tones  are  strangely  familiar.  Can  he  have  ever 
heard  her  before  ? 

She  finishes.     Mr.  Allison  draws  near  the  piano. 

"  Mrs.  Darcy,"  he  says,  clearing  his  throat,  "  will  you 
allow  me  to  introduce  to  you  Mr.  Thorndyke  ? " 

She  is  laughingly  responding  to  a  complimentary  gentle- 
man beside  her.  With  that  smile  still  on  her  lips  she  turns 
slowly  round,  lifting  up  her  eyes.  And  with  a  gasping 
sound,  that  is  neither  word  nor  cry,  Laurence  Thorndyke 
stands  face  to  face  once  more  with  Norine. 


/ 


mmm 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"whom  the  gods  wish  to  destroy  they  first 

MAKE   MAD." 

ORINE !     And  like  this,  after  four  years,  these 
two  meet  again. 

Norine  !  His  lips  shape  the  word,  but  no 
sound  follows.  He  stands  before  her  destitute 
of  all  power  to  si->eak  or  move.  Lost  in  a  trance  of  wonder, 
he  remains  looking  down  upon  the  fair,  smiling,  upturned 
face,  utterly  confounded. 

"  I  am  very  pleased  to  meet  Mr.  Thorndyke.  By  repu- 
tation I  know  him  well." 

These  audacious  words,  smilingly  spoken,  reach  his 
ear.  She  bows,  taps  her  fan  lightly,  and  makes  some 
airy  remark  to  hei  host.  And  still  Laurence  Thorndyke 
stands  petrified.  She  notices,  lifts  her  eyebrows,  and  ever 
so  slightly  shrugs  her  shoulders. 

"  Mr.  Thorndyke  does  not  spare  me.  To  which  of 
my  defects,  I  wonder,  do  I  owe  this  steady  regard  ?  " 

"  Norine  ! " 

The  name  breaks  from  his  lips  at  last.  He  still  stands 
and  stares.  ' 

She  uplifts  her  graceful  shoulders  once  more — the  old 
French  trick  of  gesture  he  remembers  so  well. 

"  I  remind  Mr.  Thorndyke  of  some  one,  possibly,"  she 
says — impatience  mingled  with  her  "  society  manner,"  this 
time — "  of  some  lady  he  knows  ? " 


*'WHOM  THE  GODS  IVTSHJ'  ETC.  197 

"  Of  some  one  I  once  knew,  certainly,  Mrs. — Ah, 
Darcy,"  he  retorts,  his  face  flushing  angrily,  his  old  inso- 
lent ease  of  manner  returning,  "  I  am  not  sure  that  you 
would  call  her  a  lady.  She  was  a  French  Canadienne — 
her  name — would  you  like  to  hear  her  name,  Mrs. 
Liston-Darcy  ? " 

"It  does  not  interest  me  at  all,  Mr,  Thorndyke." 

"  Her  name  was  Norine  Bourdon,  and  she  was  like 
— most  astoundingly  \\V^  you  I  So  like  that  I  could  swear 
you  were  one  and  the  same." 

"  Ah,  indeed  !  But  I  would  not  take  a  rash  oath  if  I 
were  you.  These  accidental  resemblances  are  so  decep- 
tive. Mr.  Wentworth,  if  you  will  give  ir„  your  arm,  I 
think  I  will  go  and  look  at  the  dancers." 

The  last  words  were  verj'  marked.  With  a  chill,  formal 
bow  to  Mr.  Thorndyke  she  took  her  escort's  arm,  and  turned 
to  move  away.  With  that  angry  flush  still  on  his  face, 
that  angry  light  still  in  his  eyes,  Laurence  Thorndyke 
interposed. 

"  Mrs.  Darcy,  they  are  playing  the  '  Soldaten  Lieder.' 
It  is  a  favorite  waltz  of  yours,  I  know.  Will  you  not  give 
it  to  me  ? " 

She  turned  upon  him  slowly,  a  swift,  black  flash  in  her 
eyes  that  made  him  recoil. 

"  You  make  a  mistake,  Mr.  Thorndyke  I  Of  what  I 
dance  or  what  I  do  not,  you  can  possibly  know  nothing. 
For  the  rest,  my  time  of  mourning  for  my  dear  adopted 
father  has  but  just  expired.     I  do  not  dance  at  all." 

Then  she  was  gone — tall,  and  fair  and  graceful  as  a 
lily.  And  Laurence  Thorndyke  drew  a  long  breath,  liis 
face  aglow  with  genuine  admiration. 

"  By  Jupiter  I  "  he  said  \  "  who'd  have  thought  it  I     In 


a 


1 98  NORTNE'S  RE  VENGE. 

the  language  of  the  immortal  Dick  Swiveller, '  This  is  a 
staggerer ! '  Who'd  have  thought  she'd  have  had  the  pluck  1 
And  who  would  have  thought  she  would  ever  have  grown 
so  handsome  ?  " 

"  You  do  know  her,  then,  Thorndyke  ? "  his  host  asked, 
in  intense  curiosity. 

Mr.  Thorndyke  had  forgotten  him,  but  Mr.  Allison  was 
still  at  his  elbow.     His  reply  was  a  short,  curious  laugh, 

"  Know  her  ?  By  Jove !  I  used  to  think  so,  but  at 
this  moment  I  am  inclined  to  doubt  it.  Have  you  not 
heard  her  deny  it,  and  ladies  invariably  tell  the  truth,  do 
they  not  ?  *  These  accidental  resemblances  are  so  decep- 
tive ! '"  He  laughed  shortly.  "  So  they  are,  my  dear 
Mrs.  Darcy  1  Yes,  Allison,  it's  all  a  mistake  on  my  part, 
no  doubt." 

He  turned  and  swung  away  to  escape  Allison,  and  think 
his  surprise  out.  His  eyes  went  after  her.  Yes,  there  she 
was  again,  the  centre  of  an  admiring  group  of  all  that  was 
best  in  the  room.  Her  beautiful  dark  face  was  all  alight, 
the  black,  beautiful  eyes,  like  dusk  diamonds,  the  waving 
hair  most  gracefully  worn — by  odds  the  most  attractive 
woman  in  the  rooms.  Those  years  had  changed  her  won- 
derfully— improved  her  beyond  telling.  The  face,  clear 
cut  and  calm  as  marble,  the  lips  set  and  resolute,  the 
figure  matured  and  grown  firm.  About  her  there  was  all 
the  uplifted  ease,  the  ineffable  self-poise  of  a  woman  of 
the  world,  conscious  of  her  beauty,  her  wealth,  and  her 
power. 

"  And  this  is  Norine — little  Norry,"  Laurence  Thorn- 
dyke thought  in  his  trance  of  wonder.  "  I  can  hardly 
believe  my  own  senses.  I  thought  her  dead,  or  buried 
alive  down  there  in  the  wilds  of  Maine,  and  lo  1  here  she 


•■ 


I 


**WHOM  THE  GODS    WISH;'  ETC.  199 

crops  up,  old  Darcy's  heiress — beautiful,  elegant,  and  ready 
to  face  me  with  the  courage  of  a  stage  heroine — the  woman 
who  has  done  me  out  of  a  fortune.  This  is  her  revenge  I 
And  I  thought  her  a  love-sick  simpleton,  ready  to  lie 
down  and  die  of  a  broken  heart  the  hour  I  left  her.  By 
George!  how  handsome  she  has  grown.  It  would  be 
easy  enough  for  any  man  to  fall  in  love  with  her  now." 

She  meant  to  ignore  the  past,  utterly  and  absolutely  ignore 
it — that  he  saw.  Well,  he  would  take  his  cue  from  her 
for  the  present,  and  see  how  the  farce  would  play.  But 
— was  it  Norine  ? — that  self-possessed  regal-looking  lady ! 
Could  it  be  that  those  dark,  calm,  haughty  eyes  had  ever 
filled  with  passionate  tears  at  his  slightest  word  of  re- 
proach ?  had  ever  darkened  with  utter  despair  at  his  go- 
ing ?  Could  it  be  that  yonder  beautiful,  stately  creature 
had  waited  and  watched  for  him  in  pale  anguish,  night 
after  night,  his  veriest  slave  ? — had  clung  to  him,  white 
wj.h  direst  woe,  when  he  had  seen  her  last?  Proud, 
uplifted,  calm — could  it  be  ? — could  it  be  ? 

"  Norine,  surely  ;  but  not  the  Norine  I  knew — a  Norine 
ten  thousand  times  more  to  my  taste.  But  how,  in  Heav- 
en's name,  has  she  brought  this  transformation  about? 
Mrs.  Jane  Liston — old  Liston's  niece.  I  have  it!  I 
see  it  all !  Liston  is  at  the  bottom  of  this.  It  is  his 
revenge  for  Lucy  West ;  and  they  have  worked  and  plot- 
ted together,  whilst  I,  blind  fool,  thought  him  my  friend, 
and  thought  her  too  feeble,  soul  and  body,  to  do  anything 
but  droop  and  die  when  I  left  her." 

Yes,  he  saw  it  all.  Like  inspiration  it  came  upon  him. 
In  his  own  coin  he  had  been  paid ;  the  trodden  worms 
had  turned,  and  Lucy  West  and  Norine  Bourdon  were 
avenged. 


^|m_|-g_||g__-|^-,^_| 


200 


NORTNETS  REVENGE. 


Mr.  Thorndyke  withdrew  from  every  one  and  gave  him- 
self wholly  up  to  the  study  of  Mrs.  Darcy.  'I'here  was  no 
scene  ;  Mrs.  Allison  need  not  have  feared  it ;  no  gentle- 
man present  "  behaved  himself "  more  quietly  or  decorous- 
ly than  Mr.  Laurence  Thorndyke.  How  wonderfully  she 
had  changed  !  how  handsome  she  had  grown !  that  was 
the  burden  of  his  musings.  And  she  had  loved  him  once 
— ah,  yes — "not  wisely,  but  too  well."  They  say  first 
love  never  wholly  dies  out.  He  didn't  know  himself  ;  he 
had  had  so  many  first  loves — centuries  ago,  it  seemed  to 
him  now — they  certainly  had  died  out,  wholly  and  entirely. 
But  with  women  it  was  different.  Had  she  quite  outgrown 
the  passion  of  her  youth  ?  And  if  it  were  not  for  Helen, 
who  could  tell —  , 

He  broke  off,  with  a  sudden  impulse,  and  joined  her. 
For  a  moment  she  was  alone,  in  a  curtained  recess,  wield- 
ing her  fan  with  the  languid  grace  of  a  Castilian,  and 
watching  the  daiicei-s.  He  came  softly  from  behind  and 
bent  his  tall  head. 

"  Norine  ! " 

If  she  had  been  stone-deaf  she  could  not  have  sat  more 
perfectly  still  and  unheeding. 

"  Norry ! " 

No  motion — no  sign  that  she  heard  at  all. 

"  Mrs.  Darcy  !  " 

She  moved  slowly  now,  turning  her  "graceful  shoulder, 
and  lifting  the  brown,  tranquil  eyes  '.al  to  his  face. 

"Did  you  address  yourself  to  me,  Mr.  Thorndyke?" 

"  Norine,  there  is  no  one  to  hear  ;  for  pity's  sake  have 
done  with  this  farce.  Norine  I  Norine  I  as  though  I 
should  not  know  you  anywhere,  under  any  name." 

"  Mr.  Thorndyke,"  Mrs.  Darcy  answered,  her  soft,  sweet 


"WHOM  THE  GODS  WISH,"  ETC.         201 

voice  singularly  calm  and  clear,  "  if  you  persist  in  this 
strange  delusion  of  yours  I  shall  be  forced  to  throw  my- 
self upon  the  protection  of  Mr.  Allison.  As  the  disinherited 
nephew  of  the  late  Mr.  Darcy,  I  have  no  objection  to  make 
your  acquaintance  ;  in  the  light  of  a  former  friend  I  utter- 
ly refuse  to  know  you.  I  am  Mrs.  Darcy.  If  you  insist 
upon  addressing  me  by  any  other  name  I  shall  refuse  to 
hear  or  answer." 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  tone  in  which  it  was  said. 
His  eyes  flashed  blue  fire. 

"  Take  care  !  "  he  said  ;  "  even  you  may  go  too  far  1 
What  if  I  tell  the  world  Mrs.  Darcy's  past  ?  " 

The  dark,  disdainful  gaze  was  upon  him  still. 

"Is  that  a  threat,  Mr.  Thorndyke?  I  do  not  know 
you,  I  never  have  known  you.  If  you  say  that  I  have, 
I  am  prepared  to  deny  it,  at  all  times,  and  in  all  places. 
My  word  will  carry  as  much  weight  as  yours,  Mr, 
Thorndyke.  I  am  not  afraid  of  you,  and  if  this  is  to  be  the 
manner  of  our  conversation,  I  decline  henceforth  holding 
another." 

She  arose  to  go.  He  saw  he  had  made  a  mistake.  It  was 
no  part  of  his  desire  to  make  an  enemy  of  her. 

"Forgive  me,"  he  said,  humbly — "forgive  me,  Mrs. 
Darcy.  The  resemblance  is  very  striking;  but  I  am 
mistaken,  of  course.  You  remind  me  of  one  I  loved  very 
dearly  once — of  one  whose  loss  has  darkened  my  whole 
life !     Forgive  me,  and  let  me  be  your  friend." 

The  scorn  in  the  dark,  contemptuous  eyes  ! — it  might 
have  blighted  him ,  but  of  late  years  Laurence  Thorndyke 
was  well  used  to  scorn. 

"Friend?"  she  said.  "  No  /  I  do  not  make  friends 
lightly.     Acquaintance,  if  you  will,  for  Mr.  Darcy's  sake 

9* 


203 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


— for  the  sake  of  your  great  disappointment  pecuniarily, 
I  am  willing  to  be  that." 

"  It  was  deserved,"  he  faltered,  his  eyes  averted.  "  I 
have  repented — Heaven  knows  how  bitterly.  That  I  have 
lost  a  fortune  through  my  own  misdeeds  is  the  least  of 
my  punishment." 

She  turned  from  him,  sick — sick  at  heart  with  the  utter 
scorn  she  felt.  As  her  gaze  wandered  away,  it  fell  upon 
another  face — the  face  of  Richard  Gilbert ! 

He  was  watching  them.  As  he  met  her  glance  he  bowed 
and  walked  away.  A  flush  that  Laurence  Thorndyke  had 
not  for  a  second  called  there,  came  vividly  into  her  pale 
cheeks. 

"  And  for  this  craven — this  hypocrite,  I  fled  from  him 
—  spoiling  my  own  life  and  his  forever.  Oh,  fool  I 
fool  I  What  can  he  have  but  scorn  and  loathing  for  me 
now." 

She  arose  impatiently.  All  at  once  the  presence  of 
Laurence  Thorndyke  had  grown  intolerable  to  her.  W  th- 
out  a  word  of  excuse  she  bent  her  head  to  him  sli(,htly 
and  frigidly  and  moved  away. 

Mr.  Thorndyke  was  not  offended.  The  course  he  meant 
to  pursue  in  regard  to  Mrs.  Darcy  was  not  yet  quite  clear. 
This,  however,  was — he  would  not  let  her  easily  offend 
him.  His  friend  she  should  be.  Who  could  tell  what  the 
future  might  bring  forth  ?  With  all  her  girl's  heart  and 
strength  she  had  loved  him  once.  A  fatuous  smile 
came  over  his  face  as  he  glanced  at  himself  in  the  mirror. 
Not  so  good-looking  as  of  yore,  certainly,  but  late  hours, 
hard  drinking,  and  the  fierce  excitement  of  the  gaming- 
table had  wrought  the  evil.  He  would  change  all  that — 
go  in  for  reform — total  amendment  of  life — try  sculpture, 


"WHOM  THE  GODS   WISH;'  ETC.         203 


and  become  a  respectable  member  of  society.     Meantime 
he  would  see  all  he  could  of  Mrs.  Darcy. 

By  Jove  1  how  handsome  she  had  looked — what  thorough- 
bred good  style  she  was!  .uid  if— hidden  under  all  this 
outward  coldness— the  old  love  still  lay,  how  easy  for  him 
to  fan  the  smoldering  embers  into  bright  flames.  And 
then—  ? 

A  vision  rose  before  him — Helen,  in  the  shabby  rooms 
at  home,  writing  far  into  the  night,  to  earn  the  bread  his 
children  ate.  Whilst  Helen  lived,  let  his  uncle's  heiress 
love  him  never  so  well,  what  could  it  avail  him  ?  "  There  is 
the  law  of  divorce,"  whispered  the  small  voice  of  the  temp- 
ter. "  To  the  man  who  wills,  all  things  are  possible.  Mr. 
Darcy's  fortune,  and  Mr.  Darcy's  heiress  may  be  yours  yet. 
You  have  played  for  high  stakes  before  to-night,  Laurence, 
my  boy.  Play  your  cards  with  care  now,  and  you  hold 
the  winning  hand  ?  " 

From  that  night  a  change  began  in  Laurence  Thorndyke 
—began  on  the  spot.  Once  more,  that  night,  he  had 
spoken  to  Mrs.  Darcy— then  it  was  to  say  farewell. 

"  You  have  told  me  you  will  accept  me  as  an  acquaint- 
ance," he  said  very  quietly.  "  Life  has  gone  hardly  with 
me  of  late,  and  I  have  learned  to  be  thankful  even  for 
small  mercies.  For  what  you  have  promised  I  thank  you, 
and — will  not  easily  forget  it." 

She  bowed— gleams  of  scorn  in  her  dark,  brilliant  eyes. 
So  they  had  parted,  and  very  grave  and  thoughtful  Mr. 
Thorndyke  went  home. 

The  change  began.  Less  drinking,  less  gambling,  better 
hourfi.  His  wife  looked  on  with  suspicious  eyes.  She 
had  reason  to  suspect.  When  Satan  turns  saint,  Satan's 
relatives  have  cause  to  be  on  the  alert. 


f 

i 


204 


NORINE'S  REVEXGE. 


Given  up  gambling  and  going  to  try  sculpture  !  Leon 
Saroni  lias  given  you  the  run  of  his  studies,  has  he  ?  1  don't 
understand  all  this,  Mr.  Tliorndyke.  What  new  project 
have  you  in  your  head  now  ?  " 

"Going  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  Nellie.  Give  you  my 
word  1  am,"  replies  Mr.  Tliorndyke,  keeping  his  temper 
with  admirable  patience.  "  Going  in  for  legitimate  indus- 
try and  fame.  I  nhvays  felt  I  had  a  genius  for  sculpture, 
I  feel  it  now  more  than  ever.  Soon,  very  soon,  you  may 
throw  this  beastly  copying  to  tlie  dogs,  and  we  will  live  in 
comfort  once  more." 

The  wonder  and  incredulity  of  his  wife's  face,  as  she 
turned  back  to  her  writing,  infuriated  him.  But  he  had 
his  own  reasons  for  standing  well,  even  with  her,  just  at 
present. 

"  Nellie,"  he  said,  and  he  stooped  to  kiss  her,  "  I've 
been  a  brute  to  you,  1  know,  but — you  care  a  little  for  me 
still !  " 

Her  face  flushed,  as  a  girl's  might  under  her  lover's  first 
caress.  Then  she  covered  it  with  her  hands  and  broke 
into  a  passion  of  tears. 

He  soothed  her  with  caresses. 

"  It  will  be  different  now,"  he  said.  "  Forgive  the 
past,  Nellie,  if  you  can.  I  swear  to  do  better  in  the 
future." 

Forgive  I  What  is  there  that  a  wife  who  loves  will  not 
forgive  ?  On  her  wedding-day  Helen  Thorndyke  had 
hardly  been  more  blessed.  With  a  glow  on  her  cheeks  and 
a  light  in  her  eyes,  strangers  there  for  many  a  day,  she 
went  back  to  her  drudgery.  And  smiling  a  little  to  him- 
self, as  he  lit  his  cigar  and  sauntered  to  his  friend  Saroni's 
studio,  Mr.  Thorndyke  mused  : 


i 


»lVnOM   THE  GODS   Il'/S//,"  ETC. 


20$ 


"They're  all  alike — all  I  Ready  to  forp;ive  a  man  seven- 
ty times  seven,  let  liim  do  as  he  may.  Ready  to  sell  them- 
selves body  and  soul  for  a  kiss!  And  what  is  true  of 
Helen  shall  be  true  of  Norinc." 

So  Mr.  Thorndyke  set  to  work,  and  with  untiring  energy, 
be  it  said  "  Deserted,"  he  meant  to  call  this  production 
of  genius.  It  should  tell  its  own  story  to  all.  The  white, 
marble  face  would  look  up,  all  wrought  and  strained  in  its 
mortal  anguish.  The  locked  hands,  the  writhing  figure, 
all  should  tell  of  woman's  woe.  The  face  he  had  in  his 
brain — as  he  had  seen  it  last  down  there  in  the  light  of  the 
summer  noon.  All  was  at  stake  here — he  must  not — he 
would  not  fail. 

And  while  Mr.  Thorndyke  chiselled  .marble,  Mrs.  Thorn- 
dyke  copied  her  law  papers.  She  had  met  Mrs.  Darcy 
more  than  once  in  Mr.  Gilbert's  office,  and  Mr.  Darcy's 
proposal  had  been  laid  before  her.  Her  eyes  had  kindled, 
her  face  flushed  as  she  refused. 

"  Leave  my  husband  ?  Never !  Whatever  his  errors,  he 
loves  me  at  least — has  always  been  true  to  me.  All  other 
things  I  can  forgive.  Mr.  Darcy  meant  kindly,  no  doubt 
— so  do  you,  madame,  but  I  refuse  your  offer,  now  and 
forever.     I  will  not  leave  my  husband." 

The  gravely  beautiful  eyes  of  Mrs.  Darcy  had  looked  at 
her  compassionately. 

"  Loves  you  I  "  she  thought — "  always  been  true  to  you. 
Poor  little  fool  1 " 

For  she  knew  better.  She  and  Mr.  Thorndyke  met  often. 
Now  that  he  had  "  gone  in  for  "  respectability  and  hard 
work,  old  friends  came  back,  old  doors  flew  open,  society 
accepted  him  again.  He  was  ever  an  acquisition,  brilliant, 
handsome,  gay.     Married,  it  is  true,  but  his  wife  never 


206 


NORLVE'S  REVENGE. 


appeared.  Truth  to  tell,  Mrs.  Thornclykc  had  nothing  to 
wear.  Mr.  Thonulykc  in  some  way  rejuvenated  his  ward- 
robe, and  rose,  glorious  as  the  Phoinix,  from  the  ashes  of 
the  shabby  past.  They  met  often,  and  if  passionate 
admiration — passionate  love,  ever  looked  out  of  man's 
eyes,  it  looked  out  of  his  now,  when  they  rested  on 
Norine. 

It  was  part  of  his  punishment,  perhaps,  that  the  woman 
he  had  betrayed  and  cast  off  should  inspire  him  with  the 
one  supreme  passion  of  his  life. 

She  saw  it  all,  and  smiled,  well  content.  She  was  not 
perfect,  by  any  means.  Revenge  she  had  bound  herself  to 
have.  If  revenge  came  in  this  shape — so  let  it  come. 
Every  pang  he  had  made  her  suffer  he  should  feel— as  she 
had  been  scorned,  so  she  would  scorn  him.  For  Mrs. 
Thorndyke— well,  was  it  not  for  Mrs.  Thorndyke  she  had 
been  forsaken.  She  was  his  wife,  at  least— let  his  wife 
look  to  herself. 

They  met  constantly.  As  yet  he  had  never  offended  in 
words.  They  were  friends.  She  was  interested  in  his 
"  Deserted  " — she  visited  it  in  company  with  some  acquaint- 
ances at  the  studio.  She  had  praised  it  highly.  If  she 
recalled  the  resemblance  to  herself,  in  that  day  past  and 
gone,  no  word  nor  look  betrayed  it. 

"  It  will  be  a  success,  I  am  sure,"  she  had  said ;  "  it  is 
so  true  to  life,  that  it  is  almost  painful  to  look  at  it." 

Then  he  had  spoken — in  one  quick,  passionate  whisper. 

"  Norine — forgive  me  ! " 

The  dark  eyes  looked  at  him,  not  proudly,  nor  coldly, 
nor  angrily  now — then  fell. 

His  whole  face  flushed  with  rapture. 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you.    You  are  never  at 


**wiioAr  THE  GODS  WISH;'  etc. 


207 


home  w/ien  I  call.  Norinc,  I  implore  you  I  let  me  see  you 
alone — once." 

Over  her  face  there  came  a  sudden  change — her  lips  set, 
her  eyes  gleamed.  Wiiat  it  meant  he  could  not  tell.  He 
interpreted  it  to  suit  his  hopes. 

"  I  will  see  you,"  she  said,  slowly.  "  When  will  you 
come  ? " 

"  A  thousand  thanks.     This  evening  if  I  may." 

She  bent  her  head  and  turned  from  him. 

"  Whom  the  gods  wish  to  destroy  they  first  make  mad," 
she  thought.  "  I  know  as  well  as  you  do,  Mr.  Thorndyke, 
what  you  are  coming  to  say  to  night,  and — I  shall  not  be 
the  only  listener." 

He  leaned  in  a  sort  of  ecstasy  against  his  own  work. 
At  last  I  she  would  see  him — she  would  hear  how  he  had 
repented,  how  he  worshipped  her,  how  the  only  hope  that 
life  held  for  him,  was  the  one  hope  of  winning  back  her 
love.  Of  Helen  he  never  thought — never  once.  It  seemed 
so  easy  a  thing  to  put  her  away.  Incompatibility  of  temper 
— anything  would  do.  And  she  had  the  pride  of  Lucifer. 
She  would  never  lift  a  finger  to  retard  the  divorce. 


^ 


at 


Uta 


CHAPTER  XX. 

norine's   revenge. 

Y  DEAR  MRS.  THORNDYKE :— Will  you 
come  and  spend  the  evening  with  me  ?  Fetch 
the  little  people,      I  shall  be  quite  alone. 

"  Jane  Liston  Darcv." 

It  was  not  the  first  time  such  notes  had  come  to  the 
tenement  house — not  the  first  time  they  had  been  accepted. 
Laurence  was  always  away.  The  late  hours  had  begun 
again.  The  evenings  at  home  were  so  dreary.  It  was  a 
glimpse  of  the  old  glad  life,  before  poverty  and  hard  work 
had  ground  her  down.     Yes,  she  would  go. 

Mrs.  Darcy,  very  simply,  but  very  prettily  dressed,  wel- 
comed her.  B.aby  Nellie  she  took  in  her  arms  and  kissed 
fondly,  but  little  Laurie,  with  his  father's  bold,  blue  eyes 
and  trick  of  face,  she  shrank  from.  The  father  she  could 
face  unmoved  ;  the  old  pain  actually  came  back  when  she 
looked  at  the  child. 

As  they  sat,  a  pretty  group  in  the  gas-light,  a  card  was 
brought  in.  Mrs.  Darcy  put  the  baby  off  her  lap  and 
passed  the  card  to  Helen. 

"  Your  husband,"  she  said.  "  He  begged  for  this  inter- 
view, and — I  have  granted  it.  But  I  wished  you  to  be 
present.  Whether  I  do  right  or  wrong,  3'ou  shall  hear  what 
he  has  to  say  to  me.  You  love  and  trust  him  still.  You 
shall  hear  how  worthy  he  is  of  it.  But  first — have  you  ever 
heard  the  name  of  Norine  Bourdon  ? " 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


209 


le 
d. 
in 
a 
rk 

i\- 
2d 
es 
Id 

[le 

as 
id 

;r- 
be 
lat 
ou 
er 


"  Norine  Bourdon  !  the  girl  whom  Laurence — " 

"  Betrayed  by  a  false  marriage — for  whom  he  was 
disinherited.     I  am  she." 

"  You  !  "     Helen  Thorndyke  recoiled. 
.    "It was  Norine  Bourdon,  not  Jane  Listen,  Mr.  Darcy 
adopted.     Have  you  not  then  the  right  to  hear  what  your 
husband  has  to  say  to  me  ?    But  it  shall  be  as  you  wish." 

"I  wish  to  hear,"  Helen  answered,  almost  fiercely. 
"  I  7uill  hear." 

Norine  threw  open  a  door. 

"Wait  in  this  room.  I  will  leave  the  door  ajar.  My 
maid  shall  take  the  children.  And  be  sure  of  this — neither 
by  word  nor  '00k  shall  I  tempt  your  husband  to  say  one 
word  more  than  he  has  come  to  say  to-night." 

Helen  Thorndyke  passed  into  the  inner  room.  Norine 
Darcy  rang  for  the  servant  waiting  without. 

"  Show  Mr.  Thorndyke  up." 

He  came,  bounding  lightly  and  eagerly  up  the  stairs, 
and  entered.  She  arose  from  her  seat  to  meet  him.  In 
full  evening  dress,  his  face  slightly  flushed,  his  blue  eyes  all 
alight  with  eagerness,  he  had  never  perhaps,  in  the  days 
when  she  had  adored  him,  looked  so  handsome  as  now. 

She  smiled  a  little  to  herself  as  she  recalled  thai 
infatuation  ;  how  long  ago  it  seemed.  And  for  this  good- 
looking,  well-dressed,  heartless  libertine,  she  had  gone 
near  to  the  gates  of  death. 

"Norine!" 

He  clasped  the  small  hand,  shining  with  diamonds,  that 
she  extended,  in  both  his,  his  tone,  his  eyes  speaking 
volumes. 

"  Good-evening,  Mr.  Thorndyke.  Will  you  be  seated  ? 
Quite  chilly  for  September,  is  it  not,  to-night  ? " 


2IO 


NO  FINE'S  REVENGE. 


She  sank  gracefully  back  into  her  easy-chair,  the  gas- 
light streaming  over  her  dusk,  Canadian  loveliness.  She 
made  an  effort  to  disengage  her  hand,  which  he  still  held 
fast,  but  he  refused  to  let  it  go, 

"  Mo,  Norine  I  let  me  keep  it.  Oh,  love,  remember  it 
was  once  all  mine.  Norine  I  Norine  !  on  my  knees  I  im- 
plo'  e  your  forgiveness  for  the  past !  " 

He  actually  sank  on  one  knee  before  her,  covering  the 
hand  he  held  with  passionate  kisses.  No  acting  here  j 
that  was  plain,  at  least.  The  infatuated  man  meant  every 
word  he  said. 

"  Forgive  me,  Norine  I  I  know  that  I  have  sinned  to  you 
beyond  all  pardon,  but  if  you  knew  how  I  have  suffered, 
how  the  memory  of  my  crime  has  made  my  whole  life  mis- 
erable, how,  to  drown  the  torture  of  memory,  I  fled  to  the 
wine-cup  and  the  gambling-table,  and  to — " 

"  Marriage  with  Miss  Helen  Holmes,  heiress  and 
belle.  Oh,  1  know  it  all,  Mr.  Thorndyke.  Pray  get 
up.  Gentlemen  never  go  on  their  knees  nowadays 
except  in  melodrama.  Get  up  Mr.  Thorndyke  ;  let  go 
my  hand  and  sit  down  like  a  rational  being.  I  insist 
upon  it." 

"  A  rational  being  !  "  he  repeated.  "  I  have  ceased  to 
be  that  since  your  return.  It  is  my  madness,  Norine,  to 
love  you  as  I  never  loved  any  women  before  in  my  life." 

She  laughed,  toying  with  the  fan  she  held. 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Thorndyke,  I  remember  perfectly  well 
what  an  absolute  fool  I  was  in  the  days  of  our  acquaint- 
anceship four  years  ago.  Even  such  a  statement  as  that 
might  have  been  swallowed  whole.  But  it  is  four  years 
ago,  and — you  will  pardon  me — I  know  what  brilliant  tal- 
ent Laurence  Thorndyke  has  for  graceful  fiction.     To  how 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


211 


many  ladies  in  the  course  of  his  thirty  years  of  life  has 
he  made  that  ardenf  declaration,  I  wonder  ?  " 

"  You  do  not  believe  me  ? '"' 

"  I  do  not." 

"  Norine,  I  swear — " 

"  Hush-h-h  I  pray  don't  perjure  yourself.  Was  it  to  tell 
me  this  you  came  here  this  evening,  Mr.  Thorndyke  ? " 

"To  tell  you,  Norine,  what  I  am  sure  you  do  not  know. 
What  I  never  knew  myself  until  of  late,  that  you  and  you 
alone  have  ever  been  my  wife ;  that  our  marriage 
was  a  marriage,  legal  and  true — that  you,  not  Helen,  are 
my  lawful  wife.  To  tell  you  this  and  much  more,  if  you 
will  listen.  From  my  soul  I  have  repented  of  the  past ; 
how  bitterly,  none  may  know.  I  left  you — great  Heaven  ! 
I  sit  and  wonder  at  my  own  madness  now;  and  all  the 
time  I  loved  you  as  I  never  loved  any  one  else.  I  married 
Helen  Holmes — ^yes,  I  cannot  deny  it,  but  what  was  I  to  do  ? 
I  was  bound  to  her,  she  loved  me,  '  my  honor  rooted  in 
dishonor  stood,'  and  I  married  her.  There  is  horrible 
fatality  in  these  things.  While  I  knelt  before  the  altar  pledg- 
ing myself  to  her,  my  whole  heart  was  back  with  you.  I 
will  own  it— despise  me  more  than  you  do  already,  if  that 
be  possible — I  married  her  for  her  wedding  dower,  and  be- 
cause I  dared  not  offend  Mr.  Darcy.  Wealth  so  won 
could  bring  little  happiness.  I  fled  from  home  and  her 
presence  to  drown  remorse  and  the  memory  of  my  lost 
love  in  drink.  So  poverty  came.  I  was  reckless. 
Whether  you  lived  or  died  I  did  not  know,  I  dared  not 
ask  —  in  abandoning  you  I  '^ad  spoiled  my  whole  life. 
Then  suddenly  you  reappeared,  beautiful  as  a  dream,  so 
far  off,  so  cold,  so  unapproachable — ^you  my  love  I  my  love  1 
once  my  very  own.    You  held  me   at  arm's-length — you 


212 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


refused  to  listen  to  a  word,  and  all  the  time  my  heart 
was  on  fire  within  me.  'J  o-night  I  have  come  to  speak 
at  last.  Norine,  I  have  sinned,  I  have  suffered,  I  have 
repented.  What  more  can  I  say  ?  I  love  you  madly,  I 
always  loved  you.  Say  you  forgive  me,  or  I  will  never 
rise  from  your  feet !  " 

Once  more  he  cast  himself  before  her,  real  passion,  its 
utmost  abandonment,  in  every  tone.  She  had  let  him  rave 
on,  never  moving,  her  cold  eyes  fixed  upon  him,  full  of 
hard,  contemptuous  fire. 

"  You  mean  all  this,  Mr.  Thorndyke  ?  Yes,  I  see  you  do. 
And  you  love  me — ^you  always  loved  me,  even  when  you 
cast  me  off  and  married  Miss  Holmes,  really  and  truly  i  " 

"  Really  and  truly  !  I  swear  it,  Norine  ? " 

"  No — don't  swear,  please — it's  against  my  principles 
to  encourage  profanity.  But  isn't  it  rather  late  in  the  day 
to  tell  me  all  this  ?  There  is  your  wife — you  don't  care  for 
her,  of  course,  but  still  you  see  she  is  your  wife,  in  the  eye 
of  the  world  at  least.  And  a  gentleman's  wife  is  rather  an 
obstacle  when  that  gentleman  makes  love  to  another  lady." 

The  fine  irony  of  her  tone  he  did  not  hear — the  scorn  of 
her  eyes  he  did  not  see.  The  "  madness  of  the  gods  "  was 
upon  him — blind  and  deaf  he  was  going  to  his  doom. 

"  An  obstacle,  but  an  obstacle  easily  set  aside.  lu  any 
case  I  mean  to  have  a  divorce.  I  never  cared  for  her — 
there  are  times  when  I  loathe  her  now.  A  divorce,  with 
permission  to  marry  again  I  shall  obtain,  and  then,  No- 
rine—" 

He  moved  as  though  to  clasp  her.  With  a  shudder  of 
horror  and  repulsion  she  waved  him  back.  And  still  he 
was  blind. 

"  And  your  children,  Mr.  Thorndyke  ? " 


NORLXE'S   REVENGE. 


213 


"  That  shall  be  as  Helen  wishes.  I  don't  care  for  them 
— never  cared  for  children.  She  may  keep  them  if  she 
wishes.  If  I  had  loved  her  it  would  be  easy  to  love  her 
children.  You  consent  then,  Norine?  It  is  as  I  hoped. 
You  forgive  the  past.  You  will  again  be  my  wife.  Oh, 
darling  !  my  whole  life  shall  be  spent  in  the  effort  to  blot 
out  the  past  and  make  you  entirely  happy.  You  love  me 
still — say  it,  Norine  '.  " 

He  clasped  both  her  hands  vehemently.  She  arose  to 
answer.  Before  the  words  of  passionate  scorn  on  her  lips 
could  be  spoken  the  inner  door  opened  and  Helen  Thorn- 
dyke  stood  on  the  threshold. 

•'  Great  Heaven  !  Helen  !  " 

He  dropped  Norine's  hands  and  staggered  back.  For 
a  moment  he  almost  thought  it  her  ghost,  so  white,  so 
ghastly  with  concentrated  passion  was  she.  She  advanced, 
— she  tried  to  speak — at  first  the  words  died  huskily  away 
upon  her  dry  lips. 

"  I  have  heard  every  word,"  she  panted.  "  You  coward  1 
You  basest  of  all  base  cowards.  Though  I  live  for  a  hun- 
dred years,  these  are  the  last  words  I  shall  ever  speak  to 
you.  Living  or  dying  I  will  never  forgive  you — livii:g  or 
dying  I  will  never  look  upon  your  face  again  1    Norine  1 " 

She  turned  to  her  suddenly : 

"  You  offered  me  a  home  and  a  competence  once,  apart 
from  him.  For  his  sake  I  refused  it  then — ^formy  children's 
sake  I  ask  it  now.  I  have  no  hope  left  but  in  you  and — 
Heaven." 

Her  head  fell  on  Norine's  shoulder  with  one  dry,  hard 
sob,  and  there  lay.  Norine  Darcy  drew  her  to  her  side,  her 
arm  clasping  her  closely,  and  so — faced  Laurence  Thorn- 
dyke. 


214 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


"  '  Every  dog  has  his  day'.  It  is  not  a  very  elegant  adage, 
but  it  is  a  true  one.  Your  day  has  been,  Mr.  Thorndyke — 
mine  has  come.  For  it  I  have  hoped,  and  worked,  for  it  I 
have  let  you  go  on — for  it  I  have  listened  to  the  words  you 
have  spoken  to-night — for  it  I  concealed  your  wife  yonder, 
that  she  might  hear  too.  You  love  me,  you  say — I  am  glad 
to  believe  it — since  a  little  of  the  torture  you  once  made  me 
feel  you  shall  feel  in  return.  For  myself  all  memory  of  the 
past  is  gone.  You  are  so  utterly  indifferent  to  me,  so  ut- 
terly contemptible  in  my  sight,  that  I  have  not  even  hatred 
to  give  you.  To  me  you  are  simply  nothing.  After  this 
hour  I  will  never  see  you,  never  speak  to  you.  For  your 
wife  and  children  I  will  provide.  You  did  your  best  to  ruin 
me,  soul  and  body,  because  you  hated  Richard  Gilbert.  I 
take  from  you  wife  and  children,  and  what  you  value  far 
more — fortune.  I  think  we  are  quits,  and  as  there  is  no 
more  to  be  said,  I  will  bid  you  good-night.  Liston  1  show 
this  gentleman  to  the  door,  and  admit  him  here  no  more." 

Then  Mr.  Liston,  pale  of  face,  soft  of  step,  furtive  of 
glance,  appeared  on  the  scene.  Still  clasping  the  drooping 
form  of  the  outraged  wife,  Norine  moved  towards  the  inner 
room. 

Thorndyke  had  stood  quite  still,  his  arms  folded,  listen- 
ing to  all.  The  game  was  up  !  A  devil  of  fury,  of  disappoint- 
ment, would  possess  him  by-and-by — just  now  he  only  felt 
half-stunned.     He  turned  to  the  door,  with  a  harsh  laugh. 

"  I  have  heard  of  men  who  murdered  the  women  they 
loved,  and  wondered  at  them.  I  wonder  no  longer.  By 
Heaven,  if  I  had  a  pistol  to-night  you  would  never  leave 
this  room  alive,  Norine  Bourdon  1 " 


<*a 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

"  THE   MILLS  OF  THE  GODS  ORIND  SLOWLY,  BUT  THEY  GRIND 
EXCEEDINGLY  SMALL." 

T  the  drawing-room  window  of  the  late  Hugh 
Darcy's  old-fashioned  house,  Hugh  Darcy's 
heiress  sits.  It  is  a  dreary  November  day,  a 
long,  lamentable  blast  soughs  through  the  city 
streets — the  two  vestal  poplars  toss  their  green  arms  wildly 
aloft  in  the  gale,  and  the  sleety  rnin  goes  swirling  before  it. 
At  all  times  a  quiet  street,  it  is  entirely  forsaken  to-day. 
Far  off  comes  the  clatter  and  jangle  of  passing  street-cars, 
the  dull  roar  of  the  city's  ceaseless  life.  In  this  by-street 
peace  reigns. 

Yet  Norine  sits  by  the  window  gazing  steadfastly  out  at 
the  wet,  leaden,  melancholy  afternoon.  In  her  lap  some 
piece  of  flimsy  feminine  handicraft  lies — on  the  table  be- 
fore her  are  strewn  new  books  and  uncut  magazines.  But 
she  neither  embroiders  nor  reads — she  lies  back  against 
the  crimson  velvet  of  the  old  chair  looking  handsome  and 
listless,  her  dark,  thoughtful  eyes,  gazing  aimlessly  at  the 
lashing  rain.  Now  and  then  they  turn  from  the  picture 
without  to  the  picture  within,  and  she  sighs  softly. 

A  bright  fire  burns  in  the  steel  grate  and  lights  ruddily 
the  crimson-draped  room.     On  a  sofa  drawn  up  before  it, 
in  a  nest  of  pillows,  Helen  Thorndyke  lies  so  still,  so  white, 
you  might  think  her  dead.     But  she  is  not  even  aslee* 
although  she  lies  motionless  with  closed  eyes.     Her 
seems  to  have  come  to  an  end.     Pride  she  has,  an^" 


2l6 


NORIAE'S  REVENGE. 


upheld  her,  but  love  she  has  too,  and  pride  cannot  quite 
crush  it  out.  Since  that  fatal  September  night  she  has 
been  here — since  that  night  his  name  has  never  passed  her 
lips  ;  these  two  women,  whose  lives  Laurence  Tiiorndyke 
has  marred,  never  tall<  of  him.  She  lies  here  and  broods, 
broods,  broods  ever — of  the  days  that  are  gone  and  can 
never  come  again. 

On  the  floor  near,  little  Laurie  is  building  a  house  of 
blocks,  and  squat  in  the  centre  of  a  wool  rug  baby  Nellie 
crows  delightedly  and  watches  the  progress  of  the  archi- 
tect. So  the  minutes  tick  off,  ind  it  is  an  hour  since 
Norine  has  entered  the  room. 

In  the  library,  before  her  entrance  here,  she  has  had  an 
interview  with  Richard  Gilbert — it  is  of  that  interview  and 
of  him  she  sits  thinking  now.  Some  business  connected 
with  Mr.  Darcy's  estate  has  brought  him,  and  she  has 
asked  him,  constrainedly  enough,  for  news  of  Laurence 
Thorndyke. 

"  I  keep  Liston  on  his  track,"  she  said,  playing  nervous- 
ly with  her  watch  chain.  "  Helen  says  little,  but  she  suf- 
fers always.     And  Liston's  news  is  of  the  dreariest." 

The  strong,  gray  eyes  of  the  lawyer  had  lifted  sternly  to 
her  face.  No  word  of  censure  had  ever  escaped  his  lips — 
what  right  had  he  ?  but  Norine  felt  the  steady  rebuke  of 
that  firm,  cold  glance.  He  knew  all,  and  she  felt  he  must 
utterly  despise  her  now. 

"  He  has  fallen  very  low,"  Mr.  Gilbert  answered,  briefly, 

"  so  low  that  it  is  hardly  possible  for  him  to  fall  much  low- 

^r.     In  losing  his  wife  and  children  he  lost  his  last  hold 

respectability,  his  one  last  hope  on  earth." 

''•'.  deserved  to  lose  them,"  Norine  said,  with  a  flash 

'ack  eyes. 


r 


t 


''THE  MILLS  OF  THE  GODS,"  ETC.       217 

"Perhaps  so.  From  all  I  hear  you  should  know  best. 
But  if  stern  justice  is  to  be  meted  to  us  all,  after  your 
merciless  fashion,  then  Heaven  help  us  !  If  vengeance  can 
gratify  you,  Mrs.  Darcy,  you  may  rest  well  content.  He 
has  sunk  as  low  as  his  worst  enemy  could  wish.  But — 
you  might  have  spared  Helen." 

Cold,  cutting,  the  words  of  rebuke  fell.  He  arose, 
gathering  up  his  papers,  his  face  set  and  stern.  Her 
face  drooped — she  covered  it  with  her  hand,  and  turned 
away. 

"  She  at  least  had  never  wronged  you,"  Richard  Gilbert 
pitilessly  went  on.  "  Have  you  made  her  any  happier, 
Mrs.  Darcy,  by  taking  her  husband  from  her  ?  In  spite 
of  his  myriad  faults  she  loved  him— she  trusted  him,  and 
so,  neither  poverty,  hard  work,  nor  neglect  could  make 
her  altogether  miserable.  You  led  him  on— led  him  on 
from  the  first,  in  cold  blood,  working  for  your  revenge. 
And  when  you  had  crazed  his  brain  by  your  smiles  and 
fair  words,  and  allurements,  you  brought  his  wife  here  to 
overhear  the  passion  you  had  labored  to  inspire.  You 
madden  her  in  turn,  you  take  her  from  him,  you  order 
him  from  your  presence  like  a  dog.  You  took  from  him 
the  one  good  angel  of  his  life— his  wife— and  gave  him  up 
boldly  to  the  devil.  He  has  earned  it  all,  you  have  your 
revenge,  but— as  I  stand  and  look  at  you  here,  I  wonder 
— I  wonder  Myou  can  be  Norine  Bourdon." 

A  dry  sob  was  her  answer.  He  had  poured  forth  the 
words,  passionate  reproach  in  his  voice,  passionate  anger 
in  his  eyes.  And  she  had  shrank  away  before  his  just  wrath 
like  a  guilty  thing. 

"His  home  is  a  gambler's  hell^his  food  and  drink 
are  the  liquid  fire  called  whiskey ;  his  associates  are  the 

10 


2l8 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


scum  and  refuse  of  the  city.    Mrs.  Darcy,  I  wish  you  joy 
of  your  wo.kl " 

«'  Spar^  mc,"  she  faltered. 

Mr.  Gilbert  looked  silently  for  a  moment  at  the  bowed 
figure,  then  took  his  hat  and  turned  to  go. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  very  quietly.  "  I  had  no 
right  to  speak  at  all.  My  only  excuse  is,  that  I  will  not 
so  offend  again.     How  is  Helen  ? " 

"  As  she  always  is.  She  says  nothing ;  she  lies  and 
suffers  in  silence.     Will  you  not  see  her  ?  " 

"  Not  to-day  ;  it  is  painful  to  me  j  I  can  see  it  is  painful 
to  her,  poor  child.    Good-afternoon,  madam." 

He  bowed  with  formal  coldness  and  was  gone.  So  I  she 
had  had  her  revenge,  but  was  the  "game  worth  the  candle" 
after  all  ?  Is  revenge  ever  worth  its  cost,  she  began  to 
wonder. 

"  Vengeance  is  mine,  I  will  repay."  Yes,  yes,  she  was 
beginning  to  see  it  all?  And— Christianity  apart — re- 
venge, as  we  wreak  it,  after  our  poor  light,  is  so  apt  to 
recoil  on  ourselves. 

So,  Norine  sits  by  the  window  now,  thinking  over  this 
pleasant  interview  and  "  chewing  the  cud  of  sweet  and 
bitter  fancies."  Much  more  bitter  than  sweet.  Until  she 
had  lost  Richard  Gilbert's  good  opinion  utterly,  she  had 
never  known  how  she  prized  it. 

jc'resently  glancing  back  from  the  darkening  day  with- 
out, at  some  lustier  shout  than  usual  of  Master  Laurie, 
she  finds  Helen's  large,  mournful  eyes  fixed  upon  her. 
She  rises,  crosses  over,  kneels  down  by  the  sofa,  and  kisses 
tenderly  the  wan  cheek. 

"  My  dear,"  she  says,  "  what  is  it  ? " 

"  Is — ,"  she  falters,  "  is  there  any  news  of  him  f  " 


i 


''THE  MILLS  OF  THE  GODS"  ETC.       219 


"  No  news — only  the  old  story.  Nellie  I  Nellie  1  I  begin 
to  think  I  have  done  grievously  wrong." 

"  How,  Norine  ?  " 

"  By  bringing  you  here  that  night.  I  have  been  sinned 
against,  but  I  have  also  been  sinning.  I  had  taken  the 
fortune  he  prized  so  highly ;  I  should  have  been  content 
with  that.  But  I  was  not.  When  I  returned  there  was 
no  thought  of  him  in  my  mind,  except  the  hope  that  we 
might  never  meet.  We  did  meet,  and  when  I  saw  his 
growing  admiration  for  myself,  I — Nellie,  forgive  me  if 
you  can — I  did  encourage  it.  I  wonder  at  my  own  wicked- 
ness now ;  I  am  sorry,  sorry,  sorry.  I  know  I  should 
never  have  brought  you  here  that  night.  Badly  as  he 
treated  you,  you  were  happier  with  him  than  you  are  now. 
And  I  parted  you.     Nellie,  forgive  me  1 " 

Something  that  was  almost  color  flushed  into  the  pale 
face — something  that  was  almost  light  into  the  blue  eyes. 
The  soft  lips  set  themselves  firmly. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  forgive.  I  thank  you  for  having 
brought  me  here  that  night.  Sooner  or  later  I  would  have 
known  all.  And  I  was  not  his  wife  he  said — you  were — 
not  I.  '  In  any  case,  I  will  have  a  divorce.'  Have 
you  forgotten  those  words  ? '  I  never  cared  for  her — I  loathe 
her  now — I  married  her  for  her  dower.'  Have  you  for- 
gotten that  f  He  deserved  all.  I  don't  blame  you.  We 
are  only  human,  and  I  say  again  I  am  glad  I  know.  I  suf- 
fer, but  no  blame  attaches  to  you  for  that  suffering.  He 
was  treading  the  down-hill  road  before  you  came  ;  he  is 
only  finishing  the  journey  as  it  wou^i^ave  been  finished 
in  any  case.  I  hate  myself  for  my  own  misery.  I  hate 
myself  that  I  cannot  tear  every  thought  of  him  out  of  my 
heart.     But  I  think  of  the  past,  and  I  cannot." 


220  NORINE'S  REVENGE. 

She  broke  clown  suddenly,  violently,  passionately  almost, 
for  the  first  time,  into  wild,  hysterical  weeping.  Norine 
took  her  in  her  arms,  her  own  tears  falling,  and  let  her  sob 
her  sorrow  out.  The  paroxysm  was  brief  as  it  was  stormy. 
She  drew  herself  away  suddenly,  and  buried  her  face, 
among  the  pillows. 

"  Doi  't  mind  me,  please,"  she  said  ;  "  don't  talk  to  me. 
I  am  ashamed  of  my  own  weakness,  but — " 
Norine  kissed  her  very  tenderly. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you  cry,  Nellie— anything  is  better 
than  this  dry,  stony  grief.  I  will  take  the  babies  down  to 
supper,  and  send  you  up  yours.  And  Nellie,  dear,  you 
must  eat  it  j  remember  we  start  on  a  journey  to-morrow." 

The  journey  was  to  Kent  Hill,  where  they  were  to  stay 
over  Christmas  and  New  Year.  Norinj  had  made  one 
flying  visit  already — had  been  clasped  in  Aunt  Hetty's  . 
arms,  had  kissed  Uncle  Reuben's  sunburnt  cheek,  had 
heard  Uncle  Joe's  husky  "  Right  glad  to  see  you  back, 
Norry,"  and— thai,  was  all.  She  took  the  old  place,  and, 
after  one  twilight  talk,  the  past  was  never  referred  to. 
Truthfully  and  simply  she  told  them  all,  not  even  except- 
ing the  darkest  part — her  own  revenge  bitterly  repented  of 
when  too  late.  Now  she  and  Helen  and  the  children  were 
going  down  for  a  long  visit.  One  other  guest  there  was 
to  be— one  who  had  spent  every  Christmas  at  Kent  Hill 
during  the  past  four  years — Mr.  Gilbert. 

"  Christm'^s  wouldn't  seem  like  Christmas  now  without 
him,"  Aunt  Hetty  said.  "  I  don't  believe  there's  his  equal 
in  wide  America.  ^  gentleman  from  top  to  toe,  if  there 
ever  was  one  yet." 

The  children  Aunt  Hetty  took  to  her  motherly  heart  at 
once— Helen's  pale  lips  she  kissed,  and  Helen  was  at 


1 


*'THE  MILLS  OF  THE  CODS,"  ETC.       221 


liomc  in  five  minutes,  as  thougii  she  li;i(l  known  them  for 
years.  It  was  siicli  a  blessed,  restful  place — the  tired 
heart  drew  a  great  sigh  of  relief,  and  felt  half  its  weary  load 
lifted  off.  For  Norine — she  was  almost  the  Norine  of  old, 
flying  up  and  down  breezy  stairways,  in  and  out  breezy 
rooms,  the  old  songs  rippling  from  her  lips,  until  the 
thought  of  the  pale,  widowed  wife  down  stairs  made  her 
check  them.  Then  came  winter — the  first  fall  of  snow— 
the  first  gay  sleighing.  Little  Laurie  was  wild  with  delight 
— even  Helen's  pale  lips  learned  to  smile.  Kent  Hill  was 
working  a  transformation. 

Christmas  drew  near,  and  among  Norine's  pleasnnt 
duties  came  that  of  decorating  Mr.  Gilbert's  room,  '.he 
old  guest  chamber,  where  he  had  spent  so  many  happy, 
hopeful  nights  in  the  time  when  he  had  loved  her.  He 
despised  her  now.  Ah,  what  a  wretch  she  had  been !  He 
would  despise  her  always.  Well,  she  deserved  it  all  ;  it 
didn't  matter ;  but — and  then  a  heavy  sigh  finished  the 
thought.  She  was  learning  the  value  of  what  she  had  lost 
when  too  late. 

Christmas  arrived — Mr.  Gilbert  arrived.  And  Helen's 
wistful  eyes  looked  into  his  face,  and  asked  the  question 
her  lips  were  too  proud  to  shape. 

"  There  is  no  news,"  he  said  softly,  as  he  bent  over  her 
chair ;  "  only  the  old  news.  He  is  well — that  is  the  best  I 
can  tell  of  him." 

No  more  was  said.  Norine,  proud  and  humble  together, 
rather  avoided  him.  Still  they  were  of  necessity  a  great 
deal  togetlier,  indoors  and  out,  and,  in  the  genial  glow  and 
cheerfulness  of  the  Christmas-time,  the  reserve  of  both 
melted.  It  began  to  be  like  old  times — the  bright  color, 
the  gay  laugh,  the  light  step,  the  sparkling  eyes,  the  sweet 


222 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


singing,  made  Norine  the  very  Norine  of  four  years  ago. 
And  Mr.  Gilbert — but  Mr.  Gilbert  was  ever  quiet  and 
undemonstrative ;  his  calm,  grave  face  told  little,  except 
that  he  was  quietly  happy  ;  that  you  could  see. 

Christmas  passed,  New  Year  passed,  Mr.  Gilbert  went 
back  to  New  York.  And  suddenly  a  blank  fell  upon  Kent 
Hill,  sleighing  and  skating  lost  their  zest — the  weather 
grew  colder,  the  dull  country  duller,  and  Mrs.  Darcy,  at 
the  close  of  January,  abruptly  announced  her  intention  of 
returning  to  New  York  also. 

"  If  you  are  willing  to  come,  Nellie,"  she  said;  "of  course 
if  you  would  rather  remain — " 

"I would  rather  go,"  Helen  answered.  "I  have  been 
happier  here  than  I  ever  thought  to  be  again,  but  I  would 
rather  go." 

That  settled  it.  They  went.  And  on  the  seco'id  of 
February  Mrs.  Darcy  donned  velvet  and  sables,  and  se^"  off 
for  Mr.  Gilbert's  office.  Was  it  altogether  for  Helen's  sake 
— altogether  for  news  of  Helen's  husband?  Well,  Mrs. 
Darcy  did  not  ask  herself  the  question,  so  no  one  else  per- 
haps has  any  right  to  do  so. 

Looking  very  fresh,  very  stately,  very  handsome,  she 
came  like  a  bright  vision  into  the  lawyer's  dingy  office. 
A  little  desu)  .ory  talk  then — playing  with  her  muff  tassels, 
she  asked  the  old  question  : 

"  Was  there  any  news  of  him  ? " 

"  Yes,"  Mr.  Gilbert  answered  this  time  ;  "  there  is  news. 
He  has  been  very  ill ;  he  has  been  in  a  hospital ;  some 
blow  on  the  head  received  in  a  drunken  brawl.  I  hunted 
him  up  the  day  he  was  discharged.  A  most  pitiable  object 
I  found  him — penniless,  friendless,  and  still  half  dazed  from 
the  effects  of  the  blow.     I   took  him  to   a  respectable 


''THE  MILLS  OF  THE  GODS,"  ETC.      223 

boarding-house,  paid  a  montli's  board  in  advance,  and  ob- 
tained tlie  landlady's  promise  to  look  after  him  a  little  more 
than  usual.  He  is  there  still,  but  gone  back  to  the  old 
life.     I  fear  all  hope  for  him  is  at  an  end." 

Norine's  face  had  fallen  in  her  hands. 

"  May  Heaven  forgive  me  my  share  in  his  ruin  I  Oh, 
Mr.  Gilbert !  it  may  not  be  yet  too  late.  Who  knows  ?  I 
will  go  to  him— I  will  beg  his  forgiveness— he  shnll  return 
to  his  wife  and  children.  Give  me  his  address"— she 
started  impetuously  to  her  feet,  her  face  aglow—"  I  will 
go  at  once." 

He  gave  it  to  her  without  a  word,  written  on  a  slip  of 
paper.  As  she  took  it,  she  paused  and  looked  at  him  with 
clasped  hands. 

"  Mr.  Gilbert,"  she  faltered,  "  if— if  I  do  this  m\\  you 

forgive  me  ? " 

He  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder,  almost  as  a  father 
might,  more  moved  than  he  cared  to  show. 

"  I  forgive  you  now,"  he  answered. 

She  left  the  house,  entered  her  carriage,  and  bade  the 
coachman  drive  to  the  address.  Then  with  a  glow  of  new 
hope,  new  happiness  at  her  heart,  she  fell  back.  Yes,  she 
would  atone  for  her  sin— she  would  labor  with  all  her 
strength  to  reform  Laurence  Thorndyke,  to  win  forgiveness 
from  Heaven  and  her  friends.  Fifteen  minutes  brought 
her  to  the  street.  Before  one  house  a  crowd  had  col- 
lected, a  suppressed  murmur  of  infinite  excitement  run- 
ning through  the  throng. 

"  It  is  the  very  house  we  are  looking  for,  ma'am"  said 
the  coachman,  opening  the  door. 

She  could  not  tell  why,  but  some  swift  feeling  of  evil 
made  her  get  out  and  join  the  crowd. 


wm 


224 


AVJiLXETS   REVENGE. 


"What  is  it  ?  "  she  breathlessly  inquired. 

"  Man  jumped  from  a  three-story  window  and  killed  him- 
self," was  the  answer. 

She  pressed  forward,  her  hand  on  her  heart — very  pale. 

"  Why  did  he  do  it? "  she  asked. 

"  Del.  trem.,  ma'am." 

"Jim  jams,  misses." 

"  Delirium  tremens,  madam,"  interposed  a  gentlemanly 
man,  touching  his  hat.  "  He  jumped  from  that  upper  win- 
dow, stark  crazy,  not  five  minutes  ago.  Very  sad  case- 
very  sad  case,  indeed.  A  gentleman  once.  I  knew  him 
well.     Uis  name  is  Laurence  Thorndyke." 


CHAPTER  XXII. 
"the  way  of  thk  transgressor  is  hard." 


IHE  stood  for  a  moment  faint,  sick,  stunned, 
unable  to  speak  or  move ;  then  she  pressed 
foiward,  still  without  a  word,  through  the 
throng.  All  made  way  for  the  beautiful, 
richly-robed  lady  with  the  death-white  face  and  dilated  eyes. 

"Wife,"  one  whispered,  falling  away. 

"  Not  his  wife — his  sister,"  another  conjectured. 

"  Neither,"  a  third  said.  "  I  know  her.  It's  Mrs.  Hugh 
Darcy,  his  late  uncle's  adopted  daughter.  He  has  no  sister, 
and  his  wife  left  him  long  ago." 

It  is  doubtful  if  she  heard  ;  it  is  certain  she  never 
heeded.  All  she  felt  or  knew  was  that  Laurence  Thorn- 
dyke  lay  yonder  on  the  blood-stained  flags,  dying  hard. 
She  was  kneeling  beside  him — a  bleeding,  mangled  heap, 
crushed  almost  out  of  semblance  of  humanity. 

"  Laurence !  Laurence  I  "  she  gasped.  "  Oh,  Heaven  1 
not  dead !  not  dead  I  " 

"  Not  dead,  madam,"  a  pitying  voice  answered — "  not 
dead  yet.  I  am  a  physician,  and  I  tell  you  so.  He  is 
insensible  at  present,  but  consciousness  will  return.  You 
know  him  ?  " 

"  Know  him  !  "  She  looked  into  the  grave,  compassion- 
ate face  with  dazed  eyes.  "  Know  Laurence  Thorndyke  ? 
What  is  it  you  intend  doing  with  him  ? "  she  asked. 

10* 


(1 


T 


226 


A'ORIJVE'S  REVENGE. 


The  medical  man  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Send  him  to  Bellevue,  I  suppose,  unless  some  friend 
steps  forward  and  takes  charge  of  him.  They  won't  want 
him  there  " — signifying  the  boarding-house — "  again.  And 
if  he  is  sent  to  a  hospital,  I  wouldn't  give  much  for  his 
chances  of  life." 

"  There  is  still  a  chance,  then  ?  " 

"Well— you  know  the  formula,  'while  there's  life  there's 
hope.'  With  the  best  of  care,  and  nursing,  and  medical 
aid,  there  may  be  one  chance  in  a  hundred  for  him.  With 
hospital  care  and  attendance,  there's  not  a  shadow." 

Then  for  the  space  of  five  seconds  a  pause  fell.  The 
city  street,  the  gaping,  curious  crowd  around  her  faded 
away,  and  there  arose  before  Norine  a  far  different  and 
never-to-be-forgotten  picture — a  desolate  autumn  evening ; 
a  gray,  complaining  sea,  creeping  up  on  its  gray  sands,  a 
low,  fast-drifting  sky  lying  over  it,  and  on  the  shore  a  girl 
standing,  reading  a  few  brief  lines  in  Laurence  Thorndyke's 
writing— lines  that  branded  her  as  a  thing  of  sin  and 
shame  for  life — that  broke  her  heart  as  she  read.  And 
now — her  enemy  lay  here  at  her  mercy.  Why  should  she 
lift  a  finger  to  save  him  ?  Why  not  let  him  go  to  the  hos- 
pital and  take  his  chance  ?  All  that  man  can  do  to  ruin  a 
woman,  body  and  soul,  he  had  done — why  should  she  lift  a 
finger  to  save  him  now  ? 

She  thought  all  this  in  a  moment  of  time.  The  tempter 
stood  at  her  side  and  rekindled  all  the  pain,  and  hatred 
and  horror  of  him.  Then  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  crushed, 
bleeding,  senseless  form  at  her  feet,  and  she  turned  from 
the  dark  thoughts  within  her  with  horror  of  herself. 

"  Well,  madam  ? "  the  voice  of  the  medical  m;in  said,  a 
little  impatiently,  "  how  is  it  to  be  ?    You  evidently  know 


"  THE  WA  Y  OF  THE   TRANSGRESSOR,"  &'C.  22/ 

this  unfortunate  young  man — shall  he  be  removed  to  the 
hospital,  or — " 

"  To  my  house  !  "  She  rose  suddenly,  her  self  posses- 
sion returning.  "  And  I  must  beg  of  you  to  accompany 
him  there.  No  efforts  mur>t  be  spared  to  restore  him. 
Carry  him  to  the  carriage  at  3nce." 

Men  came  forward,  and  t\ie  insensible  figure  was  gently 
lifted,  carried  to  the  carriage,  and  laid  upon  the  cushions. 

Norine  entered,  and  took  his  head  in  her  lap.  The 
doctor  followed. 

"  Home  ! "  she  said  to  the  coachman,  and  they  drove 
slowly  back,  through  the  busy  streets,  to  the  quiet,  red- 
brick mansion  that  for  years  had  been  Laurence  Thorn- 
dyke's  home. 

"  How  should  she  tell  Helen  ? "  All  the  way  that  thought 
filled  Norine. 

Through  her  the  wife  had  left  the  husband.  Was  Death 
here  to  separate  them  still  more  effectually .'  Would  he  ever 
have  come  to  this  but  for  her  ?  In  some  way  did  not  this 
horror  lie  at  her  door  ?  In  all  the  years  that  were  to  come 
could  she  ever  atone  for  the  wickedness  she  had  done. 

As  she  sat  here  she  felt  as  though  she  were  a  murderess. 
And  once  she  had  loved  this  man — passionately  loved  him. 
"  Fiercest  love  makes  fiercest  hate."  He  had  cast  off  that 
love  with  scorn,  she  had  vowed  revenge,  and  verily  she  had 
had  it !  Of  fortune,  of  wife  and  child,  and  now  of  life,  it 
might  be,  she  seemed  to  have  robbed  him. 

"  Oh,  forgive  me  my  sin  1 "  her  whole  stricken  soul  cried 
out. 

They  reached  the  house,  the  coachman  and  the  physician 
lifted  the  still  senseless  man  and  carried  him  to  an  upper 
chamber.  Summoning  her  housekeeper  to  their  aid,  Norine 


'-■ 


55t 


^111*^  w.i^Oi.iugig;,; 


228 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


left  them  and  went  in  search  of  the  wounded  man's 
wife. 

She  found  her  in  her  own  room  lying  listlessly,  wearily, 
as  usual,  upon  a  sofa,  gazing  with  tired,  hopeless  eyes  at  the 
fire,  while  her  little  children  played  about  her.  Kneeling 
before  her,  her  face  bowed  upon  the  pillows,  her  tears  fall- 
ing, her  voice  broken  and  choked,  Norine  told  the  story 
she  had  come  to  tell.  In  the  room  above  her  husband  lay, 
injured  it  might  be  unto  death. 

"  If  he  dies,"  Norine  said,  her  voice  still  husky,  her  face 
still  hidden.  "I  shall  feel,  all  my  life-long,  as  though  I 
were  his  murderess.  If  he  dies,  how  shall  I  answer  to  Heav- 
en and  to  you  for  the  work  I  have  done  ?  " 

Helen  Thorndyke  had  arisen  and  stood  holding  by  the 
sofa  for  support,  an  awful  ghastliness  on  her  face,  an  awful 
horror  in  her  eyes.     Dying !  Laurence  dying !  and  like  this  ! 

"Let  me  go  to  him  I"  she  said,  hoarsely,  going  blindly 
forward.  "  You  are  not  to  blame — he  wronged  you  beyond 
all  forgiveness,  but  I  was  his  wife  and  I  deserted  him.  The 
blame  is  mine — all  mine." 

She  made  her  way  to  the  room  where  they  had  laid  him. 
On  the  threshold  she  paused,  faint  almost  unto  death.  The 
yellow,  wintry  sunshine  slanted  in  and  filled  the  chamber. 
Upon  the  white  bed  he  lay,  rigid  and  ghastly.  They  had 
washed  away  the  clotted  blood,  and  the  face  was  entirely  un- 
injured. Worn,  haggard,  awfully  corpse-like,  it  lay  upon  the 
pillows,  the  golden,  sparkling  sunshine  streaming  across  it. 

"  Laurence  !  Laurence  !  Laurence  !  " 

At  that  anguished  cry  of  love  and  agony,  all  fell  back 
before  the  wife.  She  had  crossed  the  room,  she  had  fallen 
on  her  knees  by  the  bedside,  she  had  clasped  the  life- 
less figure  ill  her  arms,  her  tears  and  kisses  raining  upon 


4 


ff 


«  THE  WA  Y  OF  THE   TRANSGRESSOR,"  Gr-C.  229 

the  still  rigid  face.  All  was  forgotten,  all  forgiven, — the 
bitter  wrongs  he  had  done  her.  Nothing  remained  but  the 
truth  that  she  loved  him  still,  that  he  was  her  husband,  and 
that  he  lay  here  before  her — dying. 

Dying  !  No  need  to  look  twice  in  the  physician's  sombre 
countenance  to  see  that. 

"  He  will  not  live  an  hour,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  No- 
rine's  agonized  asking  look  ;  "  it  is  doubtful  whether  he 
will  return  to  consciousness  at  all.  There  is  concussion  of 
the  brain,  and  several  internal  injuries — any  one  enougli 
to  prove  his  death.     Mortal  aid  is  unavailing  here." 

Dying !  Yes,  even  to  Norine's  own  inexperienced  eyes 
the  dreadful  seal  was  yonder  on  the  face  among  the  pillows 
His  wife's  arm  encircled  his  neck,  her  face  was  hidden  on 
his  bosom,  a  dull,  dumb,  moaning  sound  coming  from  her 
lips.  He  lay  there  rigid — as  if  dead  already — all  uncon- 
scious of  that  last  agonized  embrace  of  love,  and  forgive- 
ness, and  remorse. 

The  doctor  left  the  room,  waiting  without  in  case  his  ser- 
vices should  be  needed.  Norine  dispatched  a  messenger 
to  Mr.  Gilbert,  another  for  a  clergyman.  He  might  return 
to  reason,  if  only  for  a  moment  before  the  spirit  passed 
away. 

"  He  cannot — he  cannot  die  like  this  1  "  she  cried  out, 
wringing  her  hands  in  her  pain.     "  It  is  too  dreadful ! " 

The  doctor  shook  his  head. 

"  Dreadful  indeed.  But  '  the  way  of  the  transgressor  is 
hard.'     He  will  never  speak  on  earth  again." 

Richard  Gilbert  came,  almost  .is  pale  as  the  pale  remorse- 
ful woman  who  met  him.  It  was  the  physician  who  en- 
countered and  told  him  the  story  first.  He  entered  the 
room.     Norine  stood  leaning  against  the  foot  of  the  bed. 


230 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


Helen  still  knelt,  holding  her  dying  husband  in  her  arms, 
her  face  still  hidden  on  his  breast.  One  look  told  him 
that  the  awful  change  was  already  at  hand. 

And  so,  with  the  three  he  had  wronged  most  on  earth 
around  him,  Laurence  Thorndyke  lay  dying.  Out  of  the 
hearts  of  the  three  all  memory  of  those  wrongs  had  gone, 
only  a  great  awe  and  sorrow  left.  For  Norine,  as  she  stood 
there,  the  old  days  came  back — the  days  that  had  been  the 
most  l)lessed  of  her  life,  when  she  had  given  him  her 
whole  heart,  and  fancied  she  had  won  his  in  return.  Old 
thoughts,  old  memories  returned,  until  her  heart  was  full 
to  breaking  ;  and  she  hid  her  face  in  her  hands,  with  sobs 
almost  as  bitter  as  the  wife's  own. 

The  moments  wore  on — profound  silence  reigned  through 
the  house.  Once  doctor  and  clergyman  stole  in  together, 
glanced  at  the  prostrate  man,  glanced  at  each  other,  and 
drew  back.  Priest  and  physician  were  alike  powerless 
here.  The  creeping  shadow  that  goes  before  was  upon 
that  ghastly  face  already  Death  was  in  the  midst  of  them. 
Without  opening  his  eyes  a  sudden  tremor  ran  through  the 
senseless  form  from  head  to  foot.  Helen  lifted  her  awe- 
struck face.  That  tremor  shook  him  for  a  moment  as 
though  the  soul  were  forcibly  rending  its  way  from  the 
body.    Then  he  stretched  out  his  limbs  and  lay  still. 


wmmms^- 


mm 


1          V     !*  ^              ^'  r- 

'^■/^^-  1  ^«     ■,:'.;    -J  ^  '''1 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

"JENNIE     KISSED     ME." 

IT  is  a  bright  but  chilly  May  clay.  In  the  lux- 
urious sitting-room  of  Mrs.  Liston-Darcy  a  coal 
fire  is  burning,  and  in  a  purple  arm  chair  before 
this  genial  fire  Mrs.  Darcy  sits. 
She  is  looking  very  hanasome  as  she  sits  here,  the  bril- 
liant morning  sunshine  streaming  across  her  dusk  beauty 
and  loosely-rippling  hair — very  handsome  in  her  rose-pink 
wrapper,  with  a  soft  drift  of  lace  about  the  slim  throat  and 
wrists.  Very  handsome,  and  yet  a  trifle  out  of  sorts,  too ; 
for  the  dark,  slender  brows  are  contracted,  and  the  brown, 
luminous  eyes  gaze  sombrely  enough  into  the  depths  of  the 
fire.  She  sits  looping  and  uniooping  in  a  nervous  sort  of 
restlessness  the  cord  and  tassels  that  bind  her  slender 
waist,  one  slippered  foot  beating  an  impatient  tattoo  on 
the  hassock,  her  lips  compressed  in  deep  and  unpleasant 
thought.  About  the  room,  great  trunks  half-packed  stand ; 
in  the  wardrobe  adjoining,  her  maid  is  busily  folding  away 
dresses.     Evidently  an  exodus  is  at  hand. 

"  I  cannot  go — I  shall  not  go  until  I  see  him,"  she  is 
thinking  ;  "  it  is  only  what  I  have  richly  earned,  what  my 
treacherj-  of  the  past  deserves,  but  it  is  none  the  less  hard 
to  bear.  I  cast  off  his  love  once,  trampled  his  heart  under 
my  feet ;  he  would  be  less  than  man  to  otTer  it  again  to 
one  so  treacherous  and  un'vorthy.     And  Nellie  is  an  angel 


232 


NORINE'S  REVENGE. 


— who  can  wonder  that  he  loves  her?  It  is  my  just  pun- 
ishment when  I  have  learned  how  good,  how  tender,  how 
noble  he  is,  to  see  her  win  him  from  me— when  I  have 
learned  to  love  him  with  my  whole  heart,  to  see  him  give 
his  to  her — to  lose  him  in  my  turn." 

She  rises  with  an  impatient  sigh  and  walks  up  and  down 
the  room,  trying  to  crush  out  the  bitter  pain  of  loss— the 
envy  and  rebellion  that  7t'/7/ arise  within  her  as  she  thinks 
of  Helen  Thorndyke  the  wife  of  Ricliard  Gilbert. 

For  it  has  come  to  this— that  society  begins  to  whisper 
Helen  will  speedily  doff  the  weeds  of  widowhood  for  the 
pale  flowing  robes  of  the  bride. 

It  is  the  second  May  following  Laurence  Thorndyke's 
tragic  death,  one  year  and  seven  months  have  passed,  and  the 
most  desparing  of  widows  will  not  despair  forever.  For  the 
last  half-year,  in  a  quiet  way,  Helen  has  been  going  out  a 
good  deal,  and  is  very  much  admired.  And  yet  no  wife 
had  ever  grieved  more  deeply,  passionately  and  truly  than 
Helen  Thorndyke  in  the  first  dark  months  following  her 
husband's  death.  Remorse  had  added  poignancy  to  her 
natural  grief  and  horror  of  his  dreadful  end,  and  she  had 
suffered  how  greatly,  only  Helen  herself  will  ever  know. 
But  that  is  nearly  two  years  ago,  and  Helen  is  but  four- 
and-twenty,  and 

"  Time,  that  blunts  the  edge  of  things, 
Dries  our  tears  and  spoils  our  bliss." 

Time  had  brought  its  balm  to  her,  and  she  could  eat, 
drink  and  be  merry  once  more.  A  great  peace  has  fol- 
lowed that  tragic  time,  friends  surround  her,  and  foremost 
and  warmest  among  them,  Richard  Gilbert. 

In  the   little  cottage,  presented  her  by  Norine,  where 


*' JENNIE  KISSED  ME."" 


233 


Helen  and  her  little  ones  dwelt,  the  lawyer  was  a  very 
frequent  visitor.  When  Mrs.  Thorndyke's  doors  closed 
to  all  others  they  opened  to  him.  And  there  Mrs.  D.ircy, 
a  daily  comer,  met  him  at  least  two  or  three  times  each 
week.  It  h.id  been  her  wish,  after  Laurence  Thorndyke's 
death,  that  the  stricken  young  widow  should  still  make 
her  home  in  her  house,  but  this  Helen  had  refused.  She 
wanted  to  be  alone,  to  hide  herself  somewliere  away  from 
all  eyes,  and  Norine  had  understood  the  feeling,  and  gifted 
her  with  the  pretty,  vme-covered  cottage  outside  the  city's 
noise  and  turmoil.  There,  with  her  babies,  Helen  dragged 
through  those  first  miserable  months,  and  lived  down  her 
first  bitter  agony  of  remorseful  despair. 

When  the  summer,  with  its  fierce,  beating  sunshine 
came  they  left  the  city's  scorched  streets  and  sun-bleached 
parks,  for  the  cool  breezes  and  country  sweetness  of  Kent 
Hill.      Thither  Richard  Gilbert,  by  invitation,  followed. 
The  close  intimacy  between  him  and  Helen  never  waned. 
The  children  clung  to  him,  and  crowed  with  delight  at 
his  coming.     He  seemed  never  to  weary  of  their  small 
society.    Was  it  altogether  for  all  their  own,  or  a  little 
for  their  mother's  sake,  Norine  wondered,  feeling  her  first 
sharp,  jealous  pangs.     He  spent  a  month  with  them,  then 
went    back.     And  when  September,  cool  and  delicious, 
came  refreshingly  to  New  York,  the  two  handsome  young 
widows,  with  the  two  little  children,  followed.     In  society 
that  winter,  Mrs.   Liston-Darcy,  the  millionaire's  heiress, 
was  admired    enorp-^usly.        Not    alone,  for  her    bank 
stock  ;  for  her  o.wn  bonnie  black  eyes  and  rare   piquant 
loveliness.     Many  men  bowed  down  before  her,  younger, 
handsomer,  more  famous  men  than  Richard  Gilbert,  but 
her  answer  was  to  one  and  all  the  same.     None  of  these 


234 


NOR  INK'S  REVENGE. 


men  touched  her  heart,  to  none  of  them  was  she  inclined 
to  tell  the  story  of  her  own  dark  past.  It  was  a  bond 
between  herself,  and  Helen,  and  Mr.  Gilbert.  In  spite  of 
herself  she  had  learned  to  love  him,  to  know  him,  to  value 
him.  She  turned  her  wistful  eyes  to  his  face,  but  those  dark, 
lustrous  looks  had  fooled  liim  once — he  was  not  the  man  to 
make  himself  any  woman's  puppet,  and  dance  as  she  pulled 
the  strings.  He  saw  nothing  but  that  she  was  rich,  far  beyond 
all  riches  of  his,  more  beautiful  with  every  passing  year, 
surrounded  by  young  and  handsome  men,  ready  to  marry 
her  at  iny  moment.  She  had  flung  him  off,  unable  to 
love  him  years  ago.  Was  it  likely  that  old,  and  gray,  and 
grim,  she  could  care  for  him  now  ?  He  laughed,  in  a 
dreary  sort  of  mockery,  at  the  bare  tho  Vt.  Love  and 
marriage  had  gone  out  of  his  life  for  he  must  be 

content  with  Helen's  trust  and  friendship ,  ..ilsome  more 
favored  man  bore  her  off,  too,  with  her  children ;  until 
they  also  outgrew  childish  loves.  That  the  world  coupled 
his  name  with  hers,  in  t/nit  way,  he  absolutely  never 
dreamed. 

Another  May  had  come,  and  Norine,  wearied  of  it  all, 
and  full  of  nameless  restlessness,  took  a  sudden  resolution. 
She  would  go  abroad.  In  travel  she  would  find  change  and 
peace,  and  when  Helen  became  his  wife  she,  at  least, 
would  not  be  here  to  see  it. 

As  she  walked  up  and  down,  deep  in  her  own  somber 
thoughts,  the  boudoir  door  opened,  and  Helen  herself 
came  in — she  was  passing  these  last  days  with  her  friend 
— came  in  looking  tall  and  stately,  and  very  fair  in  her 
trailing  black  dress,  and  most  becoming  widow's  cap. 

"  Mr,  Gilbert  has  come,  Nory,"  she  says.  "  Will  you  go 
down  or  shall  he  come  up  ? " 


1 


''JENNIE  KISSED  MFJ' 


235 


A  lovely  rose  pink  flushes  into  Norinc's  face.  She  keeps 
it  averted  from  Helen  as  siic  replies : 

"  It  doesn't  matter,  does  it  ? "  with  elaborate  careless- 
ness ;  "  he  may  as  well  come  up.  I  wish  to  speak  to  him 
on  legal  business.     Susan,  you  may  go  for  the  present." 

So  Susan  goes,  and  Mrs.  Thorndyke  returns  to  the 
drawing-room  and  tells  Mr.  Gilbert,  Norine  will  see  him 
up  stairs.  He  goes  up  stairs,  and  appears  presently  be- 
fore the  mistress  of  the  house,  rather  paler  than  usual  if 
she  did  but  notice  it. 

"Good-morning,  Mr.  Gilbert,"  she  says,  coming  forward 
with  outstretched  hand  and  a  smile.  "  I  heard  from  Lis- 
ten you  had  returned  to  t<iwn,  and  sent  for  you  at  once. 
I  hope  you  enjoyed  your  nip  to  Baltimore?" 

"As  much  as  one  usually  enjoys  a  flying  visit,  forced  upon 
one  at  a  mos*:  inopportune  time,  I  went  to  make  a  will. 
What  is  thi .  N'ellie  tells  me  ?     You  are  going  to  Europe  ?  " 

"  Going  to  Europe.  I  am  a  restless,  dissatisfied  sort  of 
mortal,  I  begin  to  ihink — never  so  happy  as  when  on  the 
wing.  Mr.  Darcy's  death  cut  short  my  continental  tour 
before  ;  I  shall  make  a  prolonged  one  this  time." 

He  was  very  grave  and  pale  ;  even  she  noted  the  pallor 
now. 

"  You  are  looking  ill,"  she  said,  drawing  closer  to  him  ; 
"  there  is  nothing  the  matter,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  thank  you.  How  long  do  you  propose  re- 
maining away  ? " 

"  Three  years  at  the  least." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.     Norine  broke  it. 

"You  said  just  now  your  trip  to  Baltimore  was  to  make 
a  will.  I  sent  for  you  this  morning  on  that  same  errand  ; 
I  am  going  to  make  my  will." 


236 


JVOH/JVrS  REVENGE. 


He  lifted  his  eyes  and  looked  at  her. 

"  Your  will !  "  he  repeated.  • 

"  My  will.  No,  don't  look  anxious,  dear  friend  ;  I  don't 
think  I  am  going  to  die.  Only,  when  one  intends  to  spend 
three  years  upon  steamers  and  express  trains,  one  may  as  well 
be  on  the  safe  side.  If  anything  should  happen,  it  is  well 
to  be  able  to  give  an  account  of  one's  stewardship.  I  want 
to  provide  for  Helen  and  the  children.  Helen  may  not  need 
any  help  of  mine"— the  steady,  sweet  tones  shook  a  little— 
"  but  it  belongs  of  right  to  the  children.  Once  it  was  to  have 
been  all  their  father's.  I  shall  only  be  giving  them  back 
what  is  rightly  theirs.  I  wish  to  leave  all  I  have  to  them. 
To-morrow,  Mr.  Gilbert,  if  you  are  not  busy,  I  will  go  to 
your  office  and  make  my  will." 

Then  there  was  a  long,  strange  pause.  In  her  own 
room  adjoining,  Helen  Thorndyke  sang  softly  as  she 
moved  about.  The  sweet,  soft  words  came  clearly  to 
then-  as  they  stood  there  : 

"  Jenny  kissed  me  when  we  met, 

Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in. 
Time,  you  thief  I  who  loved  to  get 

Sweets  into  your  list,  put  that  in. 
Say  I'm  weary,  say  I'm  sad , 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  have  missed  me. 
Say  I'm  growing  old,  but  add — 

Jenny  kissed  me  1 " 

Mr.  Gilbert  was  the  first  to  break  the  spell  of  silence. 

"  You  are  quite  right,"  he  said.  "  It  can  do  no  harm, 
only — it  will  be  trouble  taken  for  nothing.  You  will  pass 
unscathed  the  fiery  ordeal  of  steamers  and  express  trains, 
and,"  with  a  smile,  "  one  day  you  will  marry  again  and 
make  to-morrow's  legal  work  null  and  void." 


*' JENNIE  KISSED  ME» 


237 


"  I  will  never  marry." 

She  said  ^t  gravely,  and  a  little  coldly.  He  was  watching 
her — her  eyes  were  steadfastly  fixed  upon  the  fire 

"  Never  marry  ? "  he  echoed,  still  smiling.  "  What  will 
the  honorable  member  from  Ohio  say  to  that  ? " 

"  You  allude  to  Mr,  More,  I  suppose,"  she  said,  still  coldly. 
"  I  am  aware  gossip  has  coupled  our  name  :,  and  gossip  is 
about  as  correct  in  this  instance  as  it  usually  is." 

"  You  are  not  engaged  to  him,  then  1 " 

"  I  am  engaged  to  no  one.  I  care  nothing  for  Mr. 
More,  in  the  way  you  mean.  Even  if  I  did,  I  still  would 
not  dream  of  marrying  him." 

"  And  why  not  ? " 

"  Why  not  ?  You  ask  me  that — ^you  who  know  the  cruel, 
shameful  story  of  my  past,  the  story  I  should  have  to  tell." 

"  You  were  far  more  sinned  against  than  sinning,  and 
you  have  atoned." 

She  looked  up  suddenly — a  swift  flash  of  light  in  her  eyes. 

"  Mr.  Gilbert  I  You  say  that  1  If  I  could  only  think  so, 
only  hope  I  had  atoned ! " 

"  You  have  indeed.  I  say  it  with  all  my  heart.  Your 
revenge  has  been  a  noble  one.  You  have  blest  and 
brightened  the  life  of  Helen  and  her  children.  For  him 
— he  wrought  his  doom  with  his  own  handl  You  have 
atoned." 

"  To  Helen  and  her  children — perhaps  yes,"  she  said, 
her  voice  broken  and  low ;  "  but  the  greatest  wrong  of  all 
was  not  done  to  them.  Years  ago  I  sinned  against  you, 
beyond  all  forgiveness.  The  remorse  of  my  life  is  for  that. 
You  did  me  so  much  honor,  you  trusted  me  so  entirely, 
and  I — ah  !  what  a  wretch  I  must  have  been  in  your  eyes, 
what  a  wretch  I  must  be  still." 


*-  ^yjgg'-sBy'Kg^ag'»5-g;  -  'J  !.«(.i8gi^.r><aqgii- 


238 


NORTNErS  REVENGE. 


He  arose  to  his  feet,  moved  beyond  all  power  of  silence 
now. 

"  Must  be  still,"  he  repeated.  "  Norine  1  why  do 
you  make  me  say  this  ?  I  love  and  honor  you  beyond 
all  women." 

She  gave  a  low  cry,  and  stood  with  her  hands  clasped 
together. 

"  I  never  thought  to  say  it — ^you  force  it  from  me  in  self- 
defence.  I  loved  you  then — I  love  you  now.  You  have 
never  ceased  for  one  instant  to  hold  your  place  in  my 
heart.  It  is  folly,  I  know,  but  folly  you  will  not  laugh  at. 
If  you  wronged  me,  Norine — and  you  have — I  forgive  you 
freely,  utterly,  and  I  pray  Heaven  to  make  you  happy  in 
the  love  of  some  happier  man." 

She  stood  spell-bound — the  shock  of  surprise  was  so 
utter,  but  over  her  face  a  great  joy  was  breaking. 

"  And  Helen  ? "  she  gasped. 

"  Helen  ? "  he  looked  at  her  in  wonder. 

"  Did  you  not  know — can  it  be  possible  that — ^Mr.  Gilbert, 
the  world  says  Helen  is  to  be  your  wife !  " 

His  look  of  amaze  and  consternation  was  so  great  that 
she  laughed  outright — Norine's  own  sweet,  soft  laugh. 

"  Good  Heaven !"  he  said.  "What  preposterous  non- 
sense 1  Why,  only  yesterday  Helen  was  urging  me  to 
speak  to  you — the  very  folly  I  am  guilty  of  to-day.  She 
was  absurd  enough  to  imagine  I  had  still  a  chance  left.  I 
speedily  convinced  her  of  the  contrary." 

"  Did  you  ?"  Norine  said,  a  roguish  smile  dimpling  the 
pretty  mouth.  "  But  then  Mr.  Gilbert  is  famous  as  a 
special  pleader,  and  poor  Nellie  is  so  weakly  credulous.  I 
don't  believe  you  would  find  it  so  easy  to  convince  me." 

"  Norine  I "  he  stood  still,  his  face  pale,  his  eyes  startled, 


"JENNIE  KISSED  ME." 


239 


"  for  pity's  sake  what  is  it  you  mean  ?  Don't  let  me  hope 
only  to  fool  me  again  !   I — I  couldn't  bear  that  I  " 

She  came  forward,  both  hands  eloquently  outstretched, 
a  smile  quivering  on  her  lips,  tears  in  the  dusk,  lovely 
eyes. 

"  Richard,  see  !  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart — I  have 
loved  you  for  years.  Let  me  atone  for  the  past — let  me 
keep  the  plight  I  broke  so  long  ago— let  me  be  your  wife. 
Life  can  hold  no  happiness  half  so  great  as  that  for  me  I " 

And  then,  as  he  folded  her  in  his  arms  close  to  the  heart 
that  would  shelter  her  forever,  Helen's  happy  voice  came 
borne  to  them  where  they  stood. 

"  Say  I'm  weary,  say  I'm  sad, 
Say  that  hualth  and  wealth  have  missed  me; 

Say  I'm  growing  old,  but  add— 
Jemiy  kissed  me  I " 


f 


f: 


f 


l 


SIR  NOEL'S  HEIR. 


CHAPTER  I. 

SIR  Noel's  death  bed. 

HE  December  night  had  closed  in  wet  and 
wild  around  Thetford  Towers.  It  stood  down 
in  the  low  ground,  smothered  in  trees,  a  tall, 
gaunt,  hoary  pile  of  gray  stone,  all  peaks,  and 
gables,  and  stacks  of  chimneys,  and  rook-infested  turrets. 
A  queer,  massive,  old  house,  built  in  the  days  of  James 
the  First,  by  Sir  Hugo  Thetford,  the  first  baronet  of  the 
name,  and  as  staunch  and  strong  now  as  then. 

The  December  day  had  been  overcast  and  gloomy,  but 
the  December  night  was  stormy  and  wild.  The  wind  wor- 
ried and  wailed  through  the  tossing  trees  with  whistling 
moans  and  shrieks  that  were  desolately  human,  and  made 
one  think  of  the  sobbing  banshee  of  Irish  legends.  Far 
away  the  mighty  voice  of  the  stormy  sea  mingled  its  hoarse 
bass,  and  the  rain  lashed  the  windows  in  long,  slanting 
lines.  A  desolate  night,  and  a  desolate  scene  without; 
more  desolate  still  within,  for  on  his  bed,  this  tempestuous 
winter  night,  the  last  of  the  Thetford  baronets  lay  dying. 

Through  the  driving  wind  and  lashing  rain,  a  groom  gal- 
loped along  the  high  road  to  the  village  at  break-neck 


-'■■ 


244 


SIR  NOEL'S  HEIR. 


speed.     His  errand  was  to  Dr.  Gale,  the  village  surgeon, 
which  gentleman  he  found  just  preparing  to  go  to  bed. 

"  For  God's  sake,  doctor,"  cried  the  man,  white  as  a 
sheet,  "  come  with  me  at  once.     Sir  Noel's  killed  I " 

Dr.  Gale,  albeit  phlegmatic,  staggered  back,  and  stared 
at  the  speaker  aghast. 

"  What  ?    Sir  Noel  killed  ? " 

"  We're  afraid  so,  doctor  ;  none  of  us  know  for  certain 
sure,  but  he  lies  there  like  a  dead  man.  Come,  quick,  for 
the  love  of  goodness,  if  you  want  to  do  any  service  1 " 

"  I'll  be  with  you  in  five  minutes,"  said  the  doctor,  leav- 
ing the  room  to  order  his  horse,  and  don  his  hat  and  great 

coat. 

Dr.  Gale  was  as  good  as  his  word.  In  less  than  ten 
minutes  he  and  the  groom  were  flying  recklessly  along  to 
Thetford  Towers. 

"  How  did  it  happen  ? "  asked  the  doctor,  hardly  able 
to  speak  for  the  furious  pace  at  which  they  were  going.  "I 
thought  he  was  at  Lady  Stokestone's  ball." 

"  He  did  go,"  replied  the  groom  ;  "  leastways  he  took 
my  lady  there  ;  but  said  he  had  a  friend  to  meet  from  Lon- 
don at  the  Royal  George  to-night,  and  he  rode  back.  We 
don't,  none  of  us,  know  how  it  happened  ;  for  a  better  or 
surer  rider  than  Sir  Noel  there  ain't  in  Devonshire ;  but 
Diana  must  have  slipped  and  threw  him.  She  came  gal- 
loping in  by  herself  about  half  an  hour  ago,  all  blown ;  and 
me  and  three  more  set  off  to  look  for  Sir  Noel.  We  found 
him  about  twenty  yards  from  the  gates,  lying  on  his  face 
in  the  mud,  and  as  stiff  and  cold  as  if  he  was  dead." 
"  And  you  brought  him  home  and  came  for  me  ? " 
"  Directly,  sir.  Some  wanted  to  send  word  to  my  lady ; 
but  Mrs.  Hilliard,  she  thought  how  vou  had  best  see  him 


wm 


S/H  NOEL'S  DEATH  BED, 


245 


first,  sir,  so's  we'd  know  what  clanger  he  was  really  in  be- 
fore alarming  her  ladyship." 

"  Quite  right,  William.  Let  us  trust  it  may  not  be  serious. 
Had  Sir  Noel  been — I  mean,  I  suppose  he  had  beendining." 

"  Well,  doctor,"  said  William, "  Arneaud,  that's  his  vaky 
de  chambre,  you  know,  said  he  thought  he  had  taken 
more  wine  than  prudent  going  to  Lady  Stokestone's  bail, 
which  her  ladyship  is  very  particular  about  such,  you  know, 
sir." 

"  Ah  I  that  accounts,"  said  the  doctor,  thoughtfully ; 
"  and  now,  William,  my  man,  don't  let's  talk  any  more,  for 
I  feel  completely  blown  already." 

Ten  minutes'  sharp  riding  brought  them  to  the  great  en- 
trance gates  of  Thetford  Towers.  An  old  woman  came  out 
of  a  little  lodge,  built  in  the  huge  masonry,  to  admit  them, 
and  they  dashed  up  the  long  winding  avenue  under  the 
surging  oaks  and  chestnuts.  Five  minutes  more,  and  Dr. 
Gale  was  running  up  a  polished  staircase  of  black, 
and  slippery  oak,  down  an  equally  wide  and  black  and 
slippery  passage,  and  into  the  chamber  where  Sir  Noel 
lay. 

A  grand  and  stately  chamber,  lofty,  dark,  and  wainscoted, 
where  the  wax-candles  made  luminous  clouds  in  the  dark- 
ness, and  the  wood-fire  on  the  marble  hearth  failed  to  give 
heat.  The  oak  floor  was  overlaid  with  Persian  rugs ;  the 
windows  were  draped  in  green  velvet  j  and  the  chairs  were 
upholstered  in  the  same.  Near  the  centre  of  the  apartment 
stood  the  bed,  tall,  broad,  quaintly  carved,  curtained  in 
green  damask,  and  on  it,  cold  and  apparently  lifeless,  lay 
the  wounded  man.  Mrs.  Milliard,  the  housekeeper,  sat 
beside  him  j  and  Arneaud,  the  Swiss  valet,  with  a  frightened 
face,  stood  near  the  fire. 


246 


S/A'  Avars  HEIR. 


"  Very  shocking  business  this,  Mrs.  HiUiard,"  siiid  the 
doctor,  removing;  his  hat  and  gloves — "  very  shocking.  How 
is  he  ?     Any  signs  of  consciousness  yet  ? " 

"  None  whatever,  sir,"  replied  the  housekeeper,  rising. 
"  I  am  so  thankfid  you  have  come.  We,  none  of  us,  knew 
what  to  do  for  him ;  and  it  is  dreadful  to  see  him  lying 
there  like  that." 

She  moved  away,  leaving  the  doctor  to  his  examination. 
Ten  minutes,  fifteen,  twenty  passed ;  then  Dr.  Gale  turned 
to  her  with  a  very  grave  face. 

"  It  is  too  late,  Mrs.  Hilliard.     Sir  Noel  is  a  dead  man." 

"  Dead  !"  repeated  Mrs.  Hilliard,  trembling,  and  holding 
by  a  chair.     "  Oh,  my  lady  !  my  lady  I  " 

"  I  am  going  to  bleed  him,"  said  the  doctor,  "  to  restore 
consciousness.  He  may  last  until  morning.  Send  for 
Lady  Thelford  at  once." 

Arneaud  started  up.  Mrs.  Hilliard  looked  at  him,  wring- 
ing her  hands. 

"  Break  it  gently,  Arneaud.  Oh,  my  lady !  my  dear 
ladyl  so  young,  and  so  pretty — and  only  married  five 
months !  " 

The  Swiss  valet  left  the  room.  Dr.  Gale  got  out  his  lan- 
cet, and  desired  Mrs.  Hilliard  to  hold  the  basin.  At  first 
the  blood  refused  to  flow — but  presently  it  came  in  a  little 
feeble  stream.  The  closed  eyelids  fluttered  ;  there  was  a 
restless  movement,  and  Sir  Noel  Thetford  opened  his  eyes 
on  this  mortal  life  once  more.  He  looked  first  at  the  doc- 
tor, grave  and  pale,  then  at  the  housekeeper,  sobbing  on 
her  knees  by  the  bed.  He  was  a  young  man  of  seven-and- 
twenty,  fair  and  handsome,  as  it  was  in  the  nature  of  the 
Thelfords  to  be. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  he  faintly  asked.     "  What  is  the  matter  ? 


1 


I 


I- 


S/JJ  NOEL'S  DEATH  BED. 


247 


"  You  are  hurt,  Sir  Noel,"  the  doctor  answered,  sadly  ; 
"  you  have  been  thrown  from  your  horse.  Don't  attempt 
to  move — ^you  are  not  able." 

"I  remember — I  remember,"  said  the  young  man,  a 
gleam  of  recollection  lighting  up  his  ghastly  face.  "  Diana 
slipped,  and  I  was  thrown.     How  long  ago  is  that  ? " 

"  About  an  hour." 

"And  I  am  hurt?    Badly?" 

He  fixed  his  eyes  with  a  powerful  look  on  the  doctor's 
face,  and  that  good  man  shrunk  away  from  the  news  he 
must  tell. 

"  Badly  ? "  reiterated  the  young  baronet,  in  a  peremptory 
tone,  that  told  all  of  his  nature.  "Ah  !  you  won't  speak, 
I  see.  I  am,  and  I  feel — I  feel —  Doctor,  am  I  going  to 
die?" 

He  asked  the  question  with  wildness — a  sudden  hor- 
ror of  death,  half  starting  up  in  bed.  Still  the  doctor  did 
not  speak  ;  still  Mrs  Hilliard's  suppressed  sobs  echoed  in 
the  stillness  of  the  vast  room. 

Sir  Noel  Thetford  fell  back  on  his  pillow,  a  shadow  as 
ghastly  and  awful  as  death  itself,  lying  on  his  face.  But 
he  was  a  brave  man,  and  the  descendant  of  a  fearless  race  j 
and  except  for  one  convulsive  throe  that  shook  him  from 
head  to  foot,  nothing  told  his  horror  of  his  sudden  fate. 
There  was  a  weird  pause.  Sir  Noel  lay  staring  straight  at 
the  oaken  wall,  his  bloodless  face  awful  in  its  intensity  of 
hidden  feeling.  Rain  and  wind  outside  rose  higher  and 
higher,  and  beat  clamorously  at  the  windows ;  and  still 
above  them,  mighty  and  terrible,  rose  the  far-off  voice  of  the 
ceaseless  sea. 

The  doctor  was  the  first  to  speak,  in  hushed  and  awe 
struck  tones. 


248 


S//1  AOE/.'S  HEIR. 


"  My  dear  Sir  Noel,  the  time  is  short,  and  I  can  do  little 
ornothinK.     Shall  I  send  for  the  Rev.  Mr.  Knight?" 

The  dying  eyes  turned  upon  hiin  with  a  steady  gaze. 

•'  How  long  have  I  to  live  ?    I  want  the  truth." 

"  Sir  Noel,  it  is  very  hard,  yet  it  must  be  Heaven's  will. 
Hut  a  few  hours,  I  fear." 

"So  soon?"  said  the  dying  man.  "I  did  not  think — 
Send  for  Lady  Thotford,"  he  cried,  wildly,  half  raising  him- 
self again — send  for  Lady  Thetford  at  once  ! " 

"We  have  sent  for  her,"  said  the  doctor;  "she  will  be 
here  ver)'  soon.  But  the  clergyman.  Sir  Noel — the  clergy- 
man.    Shall  we  not  send  for  him  ? " 

"  No !  "  said  Sir  Noel,  sharply.  "  What  do  I  want  of  a 
clerg)'man  ?  Leave  me,  both  of  you.  Stay,  you  can  give 
me  something.  Gale,  to  keep  up  my  strength  to  the  last  ?  I 
shall  need  it.  Now  go.  I  want  to  see  no  one  but  Lady 
Thetford." 

"  My  lady  has  come,"  cried  Mrs.  Hilliard,  starting  to 
her  feet ;  and  at  the  same  moment  the  door  was  opened  by 
Arneaud,  and  a  lady  in  a  sparkling  ball-dress  swept  in. 
She  stood  for  a  moment  on  the  threshold,  looking  from 
face  to  face  with  a  bewildered  air. 

She  was  very  young — scarcely  twenty,  and  unmistakably 
beautiful.  Taller  than  common,  willowy  and  slight,  with 
great,  dark  eyes,  flowing  dark  curls,  and  a  colorless  olive 
skin.  The  darkly  handsome  face,  with  pride  in  every  fea- 
ture, was  blanched  now  almost  to  the  hue  of  the  dying  man's ; 
but  that  glittering  bride-like  figure,  with  its  misty  point-lace 
and  blazing  diamonds,  seemed  in  strange  contradiction  to 
the  idea  of  death. 

"  My  lady  1  my  lady  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Hilliard,  with  a  sup- 
pressed sob,  moving  near  her. 


.S7A'  AV/Cy:s  DKATJI  BED. 


249 


The  deep,  (lurk  eyes  turned  111)011  her  for  an  instiint, 
tlicn  wandered  buck  to  llie  bed  ;  but  she  never  moved. 

"  Ad;i,"  suid  Sir  Noel,  faintly,  "come  here.  The  rest  of 
you  go.     1  want  no  one  but  my  wife." 

'I'iie  graceful  figure,  in  its  shining  robes  and  jewels, 
moved  over  and  dropped  on  its  knees  by  his  side.  The 
other  three  quitted  the  room  and  closed  the  door.  Husband 
and  wife  were  alone  with  oidy  death  to  overhear. 

"  Ada,  my  poor  girl,  only  five  months  a  wife — it  is  very 
hard  on  you ;  but  it  seems  I  must  go.  I  have  a  great 
deal  to  say  to  you  that  I  can't  die  without  saying.  I 
have  been  a  villain,  Ada— the  greatest  villain  on  earth  to 
you." 

She  had  not  spoken— she  did  not  speak.  She  knelt 
beside  him,  white  and  still,  looking  and  listening  with 
strange  calm.  There  was  a  sort  of  white  horror  in  her  face, 
but  very  little  of  the  despairing  grief  one  would  naturally 
look  for  in  the  dying  man's  wife. 

"  I  don't  ask  you  to  forgive  me,  Ada— I  have  wronged  you 
too  deeply  for  that ;  but  1  loved  you  so  dearly— so  dearly  I 
Oh,  my  God  1  what  a  lost  and  cruel  wretch  I  have  been  1 " 

He  lay  panting  and  gasping  for  breath.  There  was  a 
draught  which  Dr.  Gale  had  left  standing  near,  and  he 
made  a  motion  for  it.  She  held  it  to  his  lips,  and  he 
drank ;  her  hand  was  unsteady  and  spilled  it,  but  still  she 
never  spoke. 

"I  cannot  speak  loudly,  Ada,"  he  said,  in  a  husky 
whisper,  "  my  strength  seems  to  grow  less  every  moment ; 
but  I  want  you  to  promise  me  before  I  begin  my  story  that 
you  will  do  what  I  ask.     Promise  I  promise  1 " 

He  grasped  her  wrist  and  glared  at  her  almost  fiercely. 
"  Promise  1 "  he  reiterated.     "  Promise  I  promise  1 " 

II* 


250 


S/H  NOEVS  HEIR. 


"  I  promise,"  she  said,  with  white  lips. 

"  May  Heaven  deal  with  you,  Ada  Thetford,  as  you  keep 
that  promise.     Listen  now." 

The  wild  night  wore  on.  The  cries  of  the  wind  in  the 
trees  grew  louder  and  wilder  and  more  desolate.  The 
rain  beat  against  the  curtained  glass;  the  candles 
guttered  and  flared  ;  the  wood-fire  flickered  and  died 
out.  And  still,  while  hour  after  hour  passed,  Ada, 
Lady  Thetford,  in  her  lace  and  silk  and  jewels,  knelt 
beside  her  young  husband,  and  listened  to  the  dark 
and  shameful  story  he  had  to  tell.  She  never  once  faltered, 
she  never  spoke  nor  stirred  ;  but  her  face  was  whiter  than 
her  dress,  and  her  great  dark  eyes  dilated  with  a  horror 
too  intense  for  words. 

The  voice  of  the  dying  man  sank  lower  and  lower — it 
fell  to  a  dull,  choking  whisper  at  last. 

"  You  have  heard  all,"  he  said,  huskily. 

"All?" 

The  word  dropped  from  her  lips  like  ice — the  frozen 
look  of  blank  horror  never  left  her  face. 

*•  And  you  will  keep  your  promise  ? " 

"Yes." 

"God  bless  you !  I  can  die  now.  Oh,  Ada!  I  cannot 
ask  you  to  forgive  me ;  but  I  love  you  so  much — so  much  1 
Kiss  me  once,  Ada,  before  I  go." 

His  voice  failed  even  with  the  words.  Lady  Thetford 
bent  down  and  kissed  him,  but  her  lips  were  as  cold  and 
white  as  his  own. 

They  were  the  last  words  Sir  Noel  Thetford  ever  spoke. 
The  restless  sea  was  sullenly  ebbing,  and  the  soul  of  the 
man  was  floating  away  with  it.  The  gray,  chill  light  of  a 
new  day  was  dawning  over  the  Devonshire  fields,  rainy 


I 


^■ 


^ 


J  ji.iiminHtiat-W-j'HJHHm'-Mu  ^k 


SIR  NOEVS  DEATH  BED. 


251 


and  raw,  and  with  its  first  pale  ray  the  soul  of  Noel  Tliet 
ford,  baronet,  left  the  earth  forever. 

An  hour  later,  Mrs.  Hilliard  and  Dr.  Gale  ventured  to 
enter.  They  had  rapped  again  and  again ;  but  there  had 
been  no  response,  and  alarmed  they  had  come  in.  Stark 
and  rigid  already  lay  what  was  mortal  of  the  Lord  of 
Thetford  Towers  j  and  still  on  her  knees,  with  that  frozen 
look  on  her  face,  knelt  his  living  wife. 

"  My  lady  1  my  lady  I "  cried  Mrs.  Hilliard,  her  tears 
falling  like  rain.    "  Oh  1  my  dear  lady,  come  away  1 " 

She  looked  up ;  then  again  at  the  marble  iorm  on  the 
bed,  and,  without  word  or  cry,  slipped  back  in  the  old 
housekeeper's  arms  in  a  dead  faint. 


4^ 


CHAPTER  II. 


CAPT.    EVERARD. 


IT  was  a  very  grand  and  stately  ceremonial,  that 
funeral  procession  from  Thetford  Towers.  A 
week  after  that  stormy  Decembv^r  night  they 

laid  Sir  Noel  Thetford  in  the  family  vault,  where 

generation  after  generation  of  his  race  slept  their  last  long 
sleep.  The  gentry  for  miles  around  were  there ;  and 
among  them  came  the  heir-at-law,  the  Rev.  Horace 
Thetford,  only  an  obscure  country  curate  now,  but  failing 
male  heirs  to  Sir  Noel,  successor  to  the  Thetford  estate, 
and  fifteen  thousand  a  year. 

In  a  bed-chamber,  luxurious  as  wealth  can  make  a  room, 
lay  Lady  Thetford,  dangerously  ill.  It  was  not  a  brain 
fever  exactly,  but  something  very  like  it  into  which  she 
had  fallen,  coming  out  of  that  death-like  swoon.  It  was  all 
very  sad  and  shocking— the  sudden  death  of  the  gay  and 
handsome  young  baronet,  and  the  serious  illness  of  his 
poor  wife.  The  funeral  oration  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Knight, 
rector  of  St.  Gosport,  from  the  words,  "  In  the  midst  of  life 
we  are  in  death,"  was  most  eloquent  and  impressive ;  and 
women  with  tender  hearts  shed  tears,  and  men  listened 
with  grave,  sad  faces.  It  was  such  a  little  while,  only 
five  short  months,  since  the  wedding-bells  had  rung,  and 
there  had  been  bonfires  and  feasting  throughout  the  vil- 


w><  <Wf  . 


T 


CAPT.  EVERARD. 


253 


lage ;  and  Sir  Noel,  looking  so  proud  and  so  happy,  had 
driven  up  to  the  illuminated  hall  with  his  handsome  bride. 
Only  five  months  ;  and  now — and  now. 

The  funeral  was  over,  and  everybody  had  gone  back 
home — everybody  but  the  Rev.  Horace  I'hetford,  who 
lingered  to  see  the  result  of  my  lady's  illness,  and  if  she 
died,  to  take  possession  of  his  estate.  It  was  unutterably 
dismal  in  the  dark,  hushed  old  house  with  Sir  Noel's  ghost 
seeming  to  haunt  every  room — very  dismal  and  ghastly 
this  waiting  to  step  into  dead  people's  shoesf-  But  then 
there  was  fifteen  thousand  a  year,  and  the  finest  place  in 
Devonshire ;  and  the  Rev,  Horace  would  have  facet'  a 
whole  regiment  of  ghosts,  and  lived  in  a  vault  for  that. 

But  Lady  Thetford  did  not  die.  Slowly  but  surely,  the 
fever  that  had  worn  her  to  a  shadow  left  her ;  and,  by 
and  by,  when  the  early  primroses  peeped  through  the  frost 
blackened  earth,  she  was  able  to  come  down  stairs — to 
come  down  feeble  and  frail  and  weak,  colorless  as  death, 
almost  as  silent  and  cold. 

The  Rev.  Horace  went  back  to  Yorkshire,  yet  not  en- 
tirely in  despair.  Female  heirs  could  not  inherit  Thetford 
—  he  stood  a  chance  yet;  and  the  pale  young  widow 
was  left  alone  in  the  dreary  old  mansion.  People  were 
very  sorry  for  her,  and  came  to  see  her,  and  begged  her  to 
be  resigned  to  her  great  loss ;  and  Mr.  Knight  preached 
endless  homilies  on  patience,  and  hope,  and  submission, 
and  Lady  Thetford  listened  to  them  just  as  if  they  had 
been  talking  Greek.  She  never  spoke  of  her  dead  husband 
— she  shivered  at  the  mention  of  his  name ;  but  that  night 
at  his  dying  bed  had  changed  her  as  never  woman  changed 
before.  From  a  bright,  ambitious,  pleasure-loving  girl, 
she  had  grown  into  a  silent,  haggard,  hopeless  woman. 


^k 


254 


SIR  NOEVS  HEIR. 


All  the  sunny  spring  days  she  sat  by  the  window  of  her 
boudoir,  gazing  at  the  misty,  boundless  sea,  pale  and  mute 
— dead  in  life. 

The  friends  who  came  to  see  her,  and  Mr.  Knight,  the 
rector,  were  a  little  puzzl»d  by  this  abnormal  case,  but 
very  sorry  for  the  mournful  young  widow,  and  disposed  to 
think  better  of  her  than  ever  before.  It  must  surely  have 
been  the  vilest  slander  that  she  had  not  cared  for  her  hus- 
band, that  she  had  married  him  only  for  his  wealth  and 
title ;  and  that  young  soldier — that  captain  of  dragoons — 
must  have  been  a  myth.  She  might  have  been  engaged 
to  him,  of  course,  before  Sir  Noel  came,  that  seemed  to  be 
an  undisputed  fact ;  and  she  might  have  jilted  him  for  a 
wealthier  lover,  that  was  all  a  common  case.  But  she 
must  have  loved  her  husband  very  dearly,  or  she  never 
would  have  been  broken-hearted  like  this  at  his  loss. 

Spring  deepened  into  summer.  The  June  roses  in  the 
flower  gardens  of  Thetford  were  in  rosy  bloom,  and  my 
lady  was  ill  again— very,  very  ill.  There  was  an  eminent 
physician  down  from  London,  and  there  was  a  frail  little 
mite  of  babyhood  lying  amongst  lace  and  flannel ;  and 
the  eminent  physician  shook  his  head,  and  looked  portent- 
ously grave  as  he  glanced  from  the  crib  to  the  bed. 
Whiter  than  the  pillows,  whiter  than  snow,  Ada,  Lady 
Thetford,  lay,  hovering  in  the  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of 
Death  ;  that  other  feeble  little  life  seemed  flickering,  too 
— it  was  so  even  a  toss-up  between  the  great  rival  po'  <;rs, 
Life  and  Death,  that  a  straw  might  have  turned  the  scale 
either  way.  So  slight  being  that  baby-hold  of  gasping 
breath,  that  Mr.  Knight,  in  the  absence  of  any  higher 
authority,  and  in  the  unconsciousness  of  the  mother,  took 
upon  himself  to  baptize  it.     So  a  china  bowl  was  brought, 


v 


•TSSBI 


CAPT.  EVERARD. 


255 


and  Mrs.  Hilliard  held  the  bundle  of  flannel,  and  long, 
white  robes,  and  the  child  was  named — the  name  which 
the  mother  had  said  weeks  ago  it  was  to  be  called,  if  a  boy 
— Rupert  Noel  Thetford  j  for  it  was  a  male  heir,  and  the 
Rev.  Horace's  cake  was  dough. 

Days  went  by,  weeks,  months,  and  to  the  surprise  of  the 
eminent  physician  neither  mother  nor  child  died.  Sum- 
mer waned,  winter  returned  ;  the  anniversary  of  Sir 
Noel's  death  came  round,  and  my  lady  was  able  to  walk 
down  stairs,  shivering  in  the  warm  air  under  all  her  wraps. 
She  had  expressed  no  pleasure  or  thankfulness  in  her  own 
safety,  or  that  of  her  child.  Shf*  had  asked  eagerly  if  it 
were  a  boy  or  a  girl ;  and  hearing  its  sex,  had  turned  her 
face  to  the  wall,  and  lay  for  hours  and  hours  speechless 
and  motionless.  Yet  it  was  very  dear  to  her,  too,  by  fits 
and  starts.  She  would  hold  it  in  her  arms  half  a 
day,  sometimes  covering  it  with  kisses,  with  jealous, 
passionate  lo-  e,  crying  over  it,  and  half  smothering  it  with 
caresses ;  and  then,  again,  in  a  fit  of  sullen  apathy,  would 
resign  it  to  its  nurse,  and  not  ask  to  see  it  for  hours.  It 
was  very  strange  and  inexplicable,  her  conduct,  altogether ; 
more  especially,  as  with  her  return  to  health  came  no 
return  of  cheerfulness  or  hope.  The  dark  gloom  that 
overshadowed  her  life  seemed  to  settle  into  a  chronic  dis- 
ease, rooted  and  incurable.  She  never  went  out ;  she  re- 
turned no  visits ;  she  gave  no  invitations  to  those  who 
came  to  repeat  theirs.  Gradually  people  fell  off;  they 
grew  tired  of  that  sullen  coldness  in  which  Lady  Thetford 
wrapped  herself  as  in  a  mantle,  until  Mr.  Knight  and  Dr. 
Gale  grew  to  be  almost  her  only  visitors.  "  Mariana,  in 
the  Moated  Grange,"  never  led  a  more  solitary  and  dreary 
existence  than  the  handsome  young  widow,  who  dwelt  a 


X 


( 
1 

I 

\ 


^i 


256  SIR  NOEVS  HEIR. 

recluse  at  Thetford  Towers.  For  she  was  very  handsome 
s  ill,  of  a  pale  moonlight  sort  of  beauty,  the  great,  dark 
eyes  and  abundant  dark  hair,  making  her  fixed  and 
changeless  pallor  all  the  more  remarkable. 

Months  and  seasons  went  by.  Summers  followed 
winters,  and  Lady  Thetford  still  buried  herself  alive  in  the 
gray  old  manor — and  the  little  heir  was  six  years  old.  A 
delicate  child  still,  puny  and  sickly,  petted  and  spoiled, 
indulged  in  every  childish  whim  and  caprice.  His 
mother's  image  and  idol — no  look  of  the  fair-haired,  san- 
guine, blue-eyed  Thetford  sturdiness  in  his  little,  pinched, 
pale  face,  large,  dark  eyes,  and  crisp,  black  ringlets.  The 
years  had  gone  by  like  a  slow  dream ;  life  was  stagnant 
enough  in  St.  Gosport,  doubly  stagnant  at  Thetford  Towers, 
whose  mistress  rarely  went  abroad  beyond  her  own  gates, 
save  when  she  took  her  little  son  out  for  an  airing  in  the 
pony-phaeton. 

She  had  taken  him  out  for  one  of  those  airings  on  a 
July  afternoon,  when  he  had  nearly  accomplished  his 
seventh  year.  They  had  driven  seaward  some  miles  from 
the  manor-house,  and  Lady  Thetford  and  her  little  boy 
had  got  out,  and  were  strolling  leisurely  up  and  down  the 
hot,  white  sands,  whilst  the  groom  waited  with  the  pony- 
phaeton  just  within  sight. 

The  long  July  afternoon  wore  on.  The  sun  that  had 
blazed  all  day  like  a  wheel  of  fire,  dropped  lower  and 
lower  into  the  crimson  west.  The  wide  sea  shone  red  with 
the  reflections  of  the  lurid  glory  in  the  heavens,  and  the 
numberless  waves  glittered  and  flashed  as  if  sown  with 
stars.  A  faint,  far-off  breeze  swept  over  the  sea,  salt  and 
cold ;  and  the  fishermen's  boats  danced  along  with  the 
red  sunset  glinting  on  their  sails. 


CAPT.  EVERARD. 


257 


Up  and  clown,  slowly  and  thoughtfully,  tlie  lady  walked, 
her  eyes  fixed  on  the  wide  sea.  As  the  rising  breeze  met 
her,  shi',  drew  the  scarlet  shawl  she  wore  over  her  black  silk 
dress  closer  around  her,  and  glanced  at  her  boy.  The 
little  fellow  was  running  over  the  sands,  tossing  pebbles 
into  the  sarf,  and  hunting  for  shells  ;  and  her  eyes  left 
him  and  wa.-.dered  once  more  to  the  lurid  splendor  of  that 
sunset  on  the  st.x  It  was  very  quiet  here,  with  no  living 
thing  in  sight  but  themselves ;  so  the  lady's  start  of  aston- 
ishment was  natural  when,  turning  an  abrupt  angle  in  the 
path  leading  to  the  shore,  she  saw  a  man  coming  towards 
her  over  the  sands.  A  tall,  powerful-looking  man  of  thirty, 
bronzed  and  handsome,  and  with  an  unmistakably  military 
air,  although  in  plain  black  clothes.  The  lady  took  a  second 
look,  then  .  .ood  stock  still,  and  gazed  like  one  in  a  dream. 
The  man  approached,  lifted  his  hat,  and  stood  silent  and 
grave  before  her. 

"  Captain  Everard !  " 

"Yes,  Lady  Thetford  —  after  eight  years  —  Captain 
Everard  once  more." 

The  deep,  strong  voice  suited  the  bronzed,  grave  face, 
and  both  had  a  peculiar  power  of  their  own.  Lady  Thet- 
ford, very,  very  pale,  held  out  one  fair  jewelled  hand. 

"  Captain  Everard,  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you  again." 

He  bent  over  the  little  hand  a  moment,  then  dropped  it, 
and  stood  looking  at  her  silent. 

"  I  thought  you  were  in  India,"  she  said,  trying  to  be  at 
ease.     "  When  did  you  return  ? " 

"  A  month  ago.  My  wife  is  dead.  I,  too,  am  widowed, 
Lady  Thetford." 

"I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  it,"  she  said,  gravely.  "Did 
she  die  in  India  ? " 


>i 


258 


SIR  NOEVS  HEIR. 


"  Yes ;  and  I  have  come  home  with  my  little  daughter." 

"  Your  daughter  1    Then  she  left  a  child  ? " 

"  One.  It  is  on  her  account  I  have  come.  The  climate 
killed  her  mother.  I  had  mercy  on  her  daughter,  and 
have  brought  her  home." 

"  I  am  sorr}'  for  your  wife.  Why  did  she  remain  in 
India  ? " 

"  Because  she  preferred  death  to  leaving  me.  She  loved 
me,  Lady  Thetford." 

His  powerful  eyes  were  on  her  face — that  pale,  beautiful 
face,  into  which  the  blood  came  for  an  instant- at  his  words. 
She  looked  at  him,  then  away  over  the  darkening  sea. 

"  And  you,  my  lady — you  gained  the  desire  of  your 
heart,  wealth,  and  a  title  ?  Let  me  hope  they  have  made 
you  a  happy  woman." 

"  I  am  not  happy." 

"  No  ?  But  yoa  have  been — ^you  were  while  Sir  Noel 
lived  ? " 

"  My  husband  was  very  good  to  me.  Captain  Everard. 
His  death  was  the  greatest  misfortune  that  could  have 
befallen  me." 

"  But  you  are  young,  you  are  free,  you  are  rich,  you  are 
beautiful.    You  may  wear  a  coronet  next  time." 

His  face  and  glance  were  so  darkly  grave,  that  the 
covert  sneer  was  almost  hidden.     But  she  felt  it. 

"  I  shall  never  marry  again.  Captain  Everard." 

"  Never  ?  You  surprise  me  !  Six  years — nay,  seven,  a 
widow,  and  with  innumerable  attractions.  Oh  1  you  can- 
not mean  it." 

She  made  a  sudden,  passionate  gesture — looked  at  him, 
then  away. 
"  It  is  useless — ^worse  than  useless,  folly,  madness,  to 


CAPT.  EVERARD. 


259 


:o 


lift  the  veil  from  the  irrevocable  past.  But  don't  you 
think,  don't  you,  Lady  Thetford,  that  you  might  have  been 
equally  happy  if  you  had  married  mei" 

She  made  no  reply.  She  stood  gazing  seaward,  cold 
and  still. 

"  I  was  madly.  Insanely,  absurdly  in  love  with  pretty  Ada 
Vandeleur  in  those  days,  and  I  think  I  would  have  made 
her  a  good  husband  ;  better.  Heaven  forgive  me,  than  I 
ever  made  my  poor  dead  wife.  But  you  were  wise  and 
ambitious,  my  pretty  Ada,  and  bartered  your  black  eyes 
and  raven  ringlets  to  a  higher  bidder.  You  jilted  me  in 
cold  blood,  poor  love  sick  devil  that  I  was,  and  reigned 
resplendent  as  my  Lady  Thetford.  Ah !  you  knew  how 
to  choose  the  better  part,  my  pretty  Ada." 

"Captain  Everard,  I  am  sorry  for  the  past — I  have 
atoned,  if  suffering  can  atone.  Have  a  little  pity,  and 
speak  of  it  no  more!" 

He  stood  and  looked  at  her  silently,  gravely.  Then 
he  said  in  a  voice  deep  and  calm, 

"  We  are  both  free.     Will  you  marry  me  now,  Ada? " 

"  I  cannot." 

"  But  I  love  you— I  have  always  loved  you.  And  you 
— I  used  to  think  you  loved  me." 

He  was  strangely  calm  and  passionless,  voice  and  glance, 
and  face.  But  Lady  Thetford  had  covered  her  face,  and 
was  sobbing. 

"  I  did — I  do — I  always  have !  But  I  cannot  marry 
you.  1  will  love  you  all  my  life ;  but  don't,  dotCt  ask  me 
to  be  your  wife." 

"  As  you  please  I "  he  said,  in  the  same  passionless 
voice.  "  I  think  it  is  best  myself  j  for  the  George  Everard 
of  to-day  is  not  the  George  Everard  who  loved  you  eight 


» 


*J 


260 


S//i  NOEL'S  HEIR. 


years  ago.      We  would  not  be  happy — I  know  that.    Ada, 
is  that  your  son  ? " 
"Yes." 

•'  I  should  like  to  look  at  him.  Here,  my  little  baronet  1 
I  want  to  see  you." 

The  boy,  who  had  been  looking  curiously  at  the  stranger, 
ran  up  at  a  sign  from  his  mother.  The  tall  captain  lifted 
him  in  his  arms  and  gazed  in  his  small,  thin  face,  with 
which  his  bright  tartan  plaid  contrasted  harshly. 

"  He  hasn't  a  look  of  the  Thetfords.  He  is  your  own 
son,  Ada.     My  little  baronet,  what  is  your  name  ? " 

"  Sir  Rupert  Thetford,"  answered  the  child,  struggling 
to  get  free.     "  Let  me  go — I  don't  know  you  1 " 

The  captain  set  him  down  with  a  grim  smile  ;  and  the 
boy  clung  to  his  mother's  skirts,  and  eyed  the  tall  stranger 
askance. 

"  I  want  to  go  home,  mamma.     I'm  tired  and  hungry." 
"  Presently,  dearest.     Run  to  William,  he  has  cakes  for 
you.    Captain  Everard,  I  shall  be  happy  to  have  you  at 
dinner." 

"  Thanks ;  but  I  must  decline.  I  go  back  to  London 
to-night.  I  sail  for  India  again  in  a  week." 
"  So  soon  !  I  thought  you  meant  to  remain." 
"Nothing  is  further  from  my  intention.  I  merely 
brought  my  little  girl  over  to  provide  her  a  home ;  that  is 
why  I  have  troubled  you.  Will  you  do  me  this  kindness, 
Lady  Thetford?" 

"  Take  your  little  girl  ?  Oh  I  most  gladly— most  willing- 
ly." 

"Thanks.  Her  mother's  people  are  French,  and  I 
know  little  about  them ;  and,  save  yourself,  I  can  claim 
friendship  with  few  in  England.    She  will  be  poor;  I 


CAPT.  EVEJiARD. 


:r,i 


have  settled  on  her  all  I  am  worth— some  three  hiiiulred  a 
year;  and  you,  Lady  Thetford,  you  teach  her,  when 
she  grows  up,  to  catch  a  rich  husband." 

She  took  no  notice  of  the  taunt ;  she  looked  only  too 
happy  to  render  him  this  service. 

"  I  am  so  pleased  I  She  will  be  such  a  nice  companion 
for  Rupert.     How  old  is  she  ? " 

"  Near\y  four." 

"  Is  she  here  ? " 

"  No  J  she  is  in  London.  I  will  fetch  her  down  in  a 
day  or  two." 

"What  do  you  call  her?" 

"  Mabel— after  her  mother.  Then  it  is  settled,  Lady 
Thetford,  I  am  to  fetch  her  ? " 

"  I  shall  be  delighted.     But  won't  you  dine  with  me  ? " 

"  No.  I  must  catch  the  evening  train.  Farewell,  Lady 
Thetford,  and  many  thanks.  In  three  days  I  will  be 
here  again." 

He  lifted  his  hat,  and  walked  away.  Lady  Thetford 
watched  him  out  of  sight,  and  then  turned  slowly,  as  she 
heard  her  little  boy  calling  to  her  with  shrill  impatience. 
The  red  sunset  had  faded  out ;  the  sea  lay  gray  and  cold 
under  the  twilight  sky ;  and  the  evening  breeze  was  chill. 
Changes  in  sky,  and  sea,  and  land,  told  of  coming  night ; 
and  Lady  Thetford,  shivering  slightly  in  the  rising  wind, 
hurried  away  to  be  driven  home. 


CHAPTER  III. 


"little  may. 

N  the  eveniiip  of  the  third  day  after  this  inter- 
view, a  fly  from  the  railway  drove  up  the  long, 
winding  avenue  leading  to  the  great  front  en- 

_  trance  of  the  Thelford  mansion.     A  bronzed 

military  gentleman,  a  nurse,  and  a  little  girl,  occupied  the 
fly,  and  the  gentleman's  keen,  dark  eyes  wandered  search- 
ingly  around.  Swelling  meadows,  velvety  lawns,  sloping 
terraces,  waving  trees,  bright  flower-gardens  quaint  old 
fish-ponds,  sparling  fountains,  a  wooded  park,  with 
sprightly  deer — that  was  what  he  saw,  all  bathed  in  the  gold- 
en halo  of  the  summer  sunset.  Massive  and  grand,  the 
old  house  reared  its  gray  head,  half  overgrown  with  ivy 
and  climbing  roses.  Gaudy  peacocks  strutted  on 
the  terraces  ;  a  graceful  gazelle  flitted  out  for  an  instant 
amongst  the  trees  to  look  at  them,  and  then  fled  in  af- 
fright ;  and  the  barking  of  half  a  dozen  mastiffs  greeted 
their  approach  noisily. 

"  A  fine  place,"  thought  Capt.  Everard.  "  My  pretty 
Ada  might  have  done  worse.  A  grand  old  place  for  that 
puny  child  to  inherit.  The  staunch  old  warrior-blood  of 
the  Thetfords  is  sadly  adulterated  in  his  pale  veins,  I 
fancy.  Well,  my  little  M.ay,  and  how  are  you  going  to  like 
all  this?" 


"  UTTLK  AfA  K" 


263 


The  child,  a  bright-faced  little  creature,  with  great,  rest- 
less, sparkling  eyes,  and  rose-bloom  checks,  was  looking 
in  delij:!ht  at  a  distant  terrace. 

"See,  papa  I  See  all  the  pretty  peacocks  I  Look,  Kllen," 
to  the  nurse,  "  three,  four,  five  !     Oh,  how  pretty !  " 

"Then  little  May  will  like  to  live  here,  where  she  can 
see  pretty  peacocks  every  day  ?  " 

•*  And  all  the  pretty  flowers,  and  the  water,  and  the  little 
boy — Where's  the  little  boy,  papa?" 

"  In  the  house — you'll  see  him  presently  j  but  you  must 
be  very  good,  little  May,  and  not  pull  his  hair,  and  scratch 
his  face,  and  put  your  fingers  in  his  eyes,  as  you  used  to  do 
with  Willie  Brandon.     Little  May  must  learn  to  be  good." 

Little  May  put  one  rosy  finger  in  her  mouth,  and  set  her 
head  on  one  side  like  a  defiant  canary.  She  was  one  of 
the  prettiest  little  fairies  imaginable,  with  her  pale  flaxen 
curls,  sparkling  light-gray  eyes,  and  apple-blossom  com- 
plexion J  but  she  was  evidently  as  much  spoiled  as  small 
Sir  Rupert  Thetford  himself. 

Lady  Thetford  sat  in  the  long  drawing-room,  after  her 
solitary  dinner,  and  little  Sir  Rupert  played  with  his  rock- 
ing-horse, and  a  pile  of  picture-books  in  a  remote  corner. 
The  young  widow  lay  back  in  the  violet-velvet  depths  of  a 
carved  and  gilded  lounging-chair  very  simply  dressed  in  black 
and  crimson,  but  looking  very  fair  and  stately  withal. 
She  was  watching  her  boy  with  a  half  smile  on  her  face, 
when  a  footman  entered  with  Captain  Everard's  card.  Lady 
Thetford  looked  up  eagerly. 

"  Show  Captain  Everard  up  at  once." 

The  footman  bowed  and  disappeared.  Five  minutes 
later,  and  the  tall  captain  and  his  little  daughter  stood  be- 
fore her. 


^  ''<«ay.titli,m„ 


^i 


264 


S/H  AOEVS  HEIR. 


"At  last  I "  said  Lady  Thetford,  rising  and  holding  out 
her  hand  to  her  old  lover,  with  a  smile  that  reminded  him 
of  others  days — "  at  last,  when  I  was  growing  tired  wait- 
ing. Ai.d  this  is  your  little  girl — my  little  girl  from  hence- 
forth ?    Come  here,  my  pet,  and  kiss  your  new  mamma." 

She  bent  over  the  little  one,  kissing  the  pink  cheek  and 
rosy  lips. 

"jShe  is  fair  and  tiny — a  very  fairy  ;  but  she  resembles 
you,  nevertheless.  Captain  Everard." 

"  In  temper — yes,"  said  the  captain.  "  You  will  find 
her  spoiled,  and  wilful,  cross,  and  capricious,  and  no  end 
of  trouble.     Won't  she.  May  ? " 

"  She  will  be  the  better  match  for  Rupert  on  that  account," 
Lady  Thetford  said,  smiling,  and  unfastening  little  Miss 
Everard's  wraps  with  her  own  fair  fingers.  "  Come  here, 
Rupert,  an<^  welcome  your  new  sister." 

The  young  baronet  approached,  and  dutifully  kissed 
little  May,  who  put  up  her  rose-bud  mouth  right  willingly. 
Sir  Rupert  Thetford  was  not  tall,  rather  undersized,  and 
delicate  for  his  seven  years ;  but  ht  was  head  and  shoul- 
ders over  the  flaxen-haired  fairy,  wiih  the  bright  gray 
eyes. 

"  I  want  a  ride  on  your  rocking-horse,"  cried  little  May, 
fraternizing  with  him  at  once ;  "  and  oh !  what  nice 
picture-books,  and  what  a  lot  1 " 

The  children  ran  off  together  to  their  distant  corner, 
and  Captain  Everard  sat  down  for  the  first  time. 

"You  have  not  dined  ?"  said  Lady  Thetford.  "Allow 
me  to — "  her  hand  was  on  the  bell,  but  the  captain  inter- 
posed. 

"  Many  thanks — nothing.  We  dined  at  the  village ; 
and  I   leave  again  by  vhe  seven-fifty  train.     It  is  past 


V) 


fl\ 


I 


M 


-ijaccr...  ^.^.^g,- 


"L/TTLE  AfAY." 


265 


seven  now,  so  I  have  but  little  time  to  spare.  I  fear  I  am 
putting  you  to  a  great  deal  of  trouble ;  but  May's  nurse 
insists  on  being  taken  back  to  London  to-night." 

"  It  will  be  of  no  consequence,"  replied  Lady  Thetford, 
"  Rupert's  nurse  will  take  charge  of  her.  I  intend  to  adver- 
tise for  a  nursery-governess  in  a  few  days.  Rupert'-> 
health  has  always  been  so  extremely  delicate,  that  he  h.is 
not  even  made  a  pi  i  text  of  learning  yet,  and  it  is  quite 
time.  He  grows  stronger,  I  fancy ;  but  Dr.  Gale  tells  me 
frankly  his  constitution  is  dangerously  weak." 

She  sighed  as  she  spoke,  and  looked  over  to  where  he 
stood  beside  little  May  who  had  mounted  the  rocking- 
horse  boy-fashion.     Sir  Rupert  was  expostulating. 

"  You  oughtn't  to  sit  that  way — ask  mamma.  You  ought 
to  sit  side-saddle.     Only  boys  sit  like  that." 

"  I  don't  care !  "  retorted  Miss  Everard,  rocking  more 
violently  than  ever.  "  I'll  sit  whatever  way  I  like  !  Let 
me  alone ! " 

Lady  Thetford  looked  at  the  captain  with  a  smile. 

"  Her  father's  daughter,  surely  !  bent  on  having  her  own 
way.  What  a  fairy  it  is !  and  yet  such  a  perfect  picture 
of  health." 

"  Mabel  never  was  ill  an  hour  in  her  life,  I  believe," 
said  her  father  ;  "  she  is  not  at  all  too  good  for  this  world. 
I  only  hope  she  may  not  grow  up  the  torment  of  your  life — 
she  is  thoroughly  spoiled." 

"  And  I  fear  if  she  were  not,  I  should  do  it.  Ah  !  I  ex- 
pect she  will  be  a  great  comfort  to  me,  and  a  world  of 
good  to  Rupert.  He  has  never  had  a  playmate  of  his  own 
years,  and  children  need  children  as  much  as  they  need 
sunshine." 

They  sat  for  ten  minutes  conversing  gravely,  chiefly  on 

12 


266 


S/Ji  NOELS  HEIR. 


business  matters  connected  with  little  May's  annuity — 
not  at  all  as  they  had  conversed  three  days  before  by  the 
sea-side.  Then,  as  half-past  seven  drew  near,  the  captain 
arose. 

"  I  must  go.  I  will  hardly  be  in  time  as  it  is.  Come 
here,  little  May,  and  bid  pa^ia  good-by." 

"  Let  papa  come  to  May,"  responded  his  daughter,  still 
rocking.     "  I  can't  get  off." 

Captain  Everard  laughed ;  went  over,  bent  down  and 
kissed  her. 

"  Good-by,  May ;  don't  forget  papa,  and  learn  to  be  a 
good  girl.  Good-by,  baronet ;  try  and  grow  strong  and 
tall.     Farewell,  Lady  Thetford,  with  my  best  thanks." 

She  held  his  hand,  looking  up  in  his  sunburned  face 
with  tears  in  her  dark  eyes. 

"We  may  never  meet  again.  Captain  Everard,"  she 
said,  hurriedly.  "  Tell  me  before  we  part  that  you  forgive 
me  the  past." 

"  Tnily  Ada,  and  for  the  first  time.  The  service  you 
have  reidered  me  fully  atones.  You  should  have  been 
my  child's  mother — be  a  mother  to  her  now.  Good-by, 
and  God  bless  yor  and  your  boy." 

He  stooped  over,  touched  her  cheek  with  his  lips  rever- 
entially, and  then  was  gone.  Gone  forever— never  ':o 
meet  those  he  left  behiiJ  this  side  of  eternity. 

Little  May  bore  the  loss  of  her  papa  and  nurse  with 
philosophical  indifference  ;  her  new  playmate  suPiced  for 
both.  The  children  took  to  one  another  with  the  read- 
iness of  childhood— Rupert  all  the  more  readily  that  he 
had  never  before  had  a  playmate  of  his  own  years.  He 
was  naturally  a  quiet  child,  caring  more  for  his  picture- 
books,  and  his  nurse's  stories,  than  for  tops,  or  balls,  or 


Wis*s»;-«*»*s-^*^*^'"' " 


.":r  ^-Lv.^.'ii^-jij:::<..-u 


"L/TTLE  AfAVy 


267 


i- 


marbles.  But  little  May  Everard  seemed  from  the  first 
to  inspire  him  with  some  of  her  own  superabundant  vital- 
ity and  life.  The  child  was  never,  for  a  single  instant, 
quiet ;  she  was  the  most  restless,  the  most  impetuous,  the 
most  vigorous  little  creature  that  can  be  conceived.  Feet, 
and  tongue,  and  hands,  never  were  still  from  morning 
till  night ;  and  the  .  !e  of  Sir  Rupert's  nurse,  hitherto  one 
of  idle  ease,  became  all  at  once  a  misery  to  her.  The 
little  girl  was  everywhere — everywhere ;  especially  where 
she  had  no  business  to  be  ;  and  nurse  never  knew  an  easy 
moment  for  trotting  after  her,  and  rescuing  her  from  all 
sorts  of  perils.  She  could  climb  like  a  cat,  or  a  goat ; 
and  risked  her  neck  about  twenty  times  per  diem ;  she 
^aitod  her  shoes  in  her  soup,  and  washed  her  hands 
in  her  milk  and-water.  She  became  the  intimate  friend 
of  the  pretty  peacocks,  and  the  big,  good-tempered  dogs, 
with  whom,  in  utter  fearlessness,  she  rolled  about  in 
the  grass  half  the  day.  She  broke  young  Rupert's  toys, 
tore  his  picture-books,  slapped  his  face,  pulled  his 
hair,  and  made  herself  master  of  the  situation  before 
she  had  been  twenty-four  hours  in  the  house.  She  was 
thoroughly  and  completely  spoiled.  What  India  nurses 
had  left  undone,  injudicious  petting  and  flattery,  on  the 
homeward  passage,  had  completed,  and '  her  temper 
was  something  appalling.  Her  shrieks  of  passion  at 
the  slightest  contradiction  of  her  imperial  will  rang 
through  the  house,  and  rent  the  tortured  tympanums  of 
all  who  heard.  The  little  Xantippe  would  Hing  herself 
flat  on  the  carpet,  and  literally  scream  herself  black  in 
the  face,  until,  in  dread  of  apoplexy  and  sudden  death, 
her  frightened  hearers  hastened  to  yield.  Of  course,  one 
such  victory  insured  all  the  rest.     As  for  Sir  Rupert,  be- 


268 


S//!  A'OEVS  HEIli. 


fore  she  had  been  a  week  at  Thetford  Towers,  he  dared 
not  call  his  soul  his  own.  She  had  partially  scalped  him 
on  several  occasions,  and  left  the  mark  of  her  cat-like 
nails  in  his  tender  visage  ;  but  her  venomous  power  of 
screeching  for  hours  at  will,  had  more  to  do  with  the  little 
baronet's  dread  of  her  than  anything  else.  He  fled  inglori- 
ously  in  every  battle — running  in  tears  to  mamma,  and 
leaving  the  field  and  the  trophies  of  victory  triumphantly 
to  Miss  Everard.  With  all  this,  when  not  thwarted — when 
allowed  to  smash  toys,  and  dirty  her  clothes,  and  smear 
her  infantile  face,  and  tear  pictures,  and  torment  inoffen- 
sive lapdogs  ;  when  allowed,  in  short,  to  follow  "  her  own 
sweet  will,"  little  May  was  as  charming  a  fairy  as  ever  the 
sun  shone  on.  Her  gleeful  laugh  made  music  in  the  dreary 
old  rooms,  such  as  had  never  been  heard  there  for  many  a 
day,  and  her  mischievous  antics  were  the  delight  of  all 
who  did  not  suffer  thereby.  The  servants  petted  and  in- 
dulged her,  and  fed  her  on  unwholesome  cakes  and  sweet- 
meats, and  made  her  worse  and  worse  every  day  of  her 
life. 

Lady  Thetford  saw  all  this  with  inward  apprehension. 
If  her  ward  was  completely  beyond  her  power  of  control 
at  four,  what  would  she  be  a  dozen  years  hence. 

"  Her  father  was  right,"  thought  the  lady.  "  I  am  afraid 
she  7f'77/give  me  a  great  deal  of  trouble.  I  never  saw  so 
headstrong,  so  utterly  unmanageable  a  child." 

But  Lady  Thetford  was  very  fond  of  the  fairy  despot 
withal.  When  her  son  came  running  to  her  for  succor, 
drowned  in  tears,  and  bearing  the  marks  of  little  May's 
claws,  his  mother  took  him  in  her  arms  and  kissed  him  and 
soothed  him — but  she  never  punished  the  offender.  As 
for  Sir  Rupert,  he  might  fly  ignominiously,  but  he  never 


*«^ 


:Vii5§^i«a*«fe*^BiU-a«r#»»«*« 


''LITTLE  MAVr 


269 


H^ 


fought  back.  Little  May  had  the  hair-pulling  and  face- 
scratchi.ig  all  to  herself. 

"  I  must  get  a  governess,"  mused  Lady  Thetford.  "  I 
may  find  one  who  can  control  this  little  vixen  ;  and  it  is 
really  time  that  Rupert  began  his  studies.  I  will  speak  to 
Mr.  Knight  about  it." 

Lady  Thetford  sent  that  very  day  to  the  rector  her  lady- 
ship's compliments,  the  servant  said,  and  would  Mr.  Knight 
call  at  his  earliest  convenience.  Mr.  Knight  sent  in  an- 
swer to  t^xpect  him  that  same  evening  ;  and  on  his  way  he 
fell  in  with  Dr.  Gale,  going  to  the  manor-house  on  a  pro- 
fessional visit. 

"  Little  Sir  Rupert  keeps  weakly,"  he  said  ;  "  no  consti- 
tution to  speiik  of.  Not  at  all  like  the  Thetfords — 
splendid  old  stock,  the  Thetfords,  but  run  out — run  out. 
Sir  Rupert  is  a  Vandeleur,  inherits  his  mother's  constitution 
— delicate  child,  very." 

"Have  you  seen  Lady  Thetford's  ward?  inquired  the 
clergyman,  smiling:  "no  hereditary  weakness  there,  I 
fancy.  I'll  answer  for  the  strength  of  her  lungs  at  any  rate. 
The  other  day  she  wanted  Lady  Thetford's  watch  for  a 
plaything ;  she  couldn't  have  it,  and  down  she  fell  flat  on 
the  floor  in  what  her  nurse  calls  'one  of  her  tantrums.' 
You  should  have  heard  her,  her  shrieks  were  appalling." 

"  I  have,"  said  the  doctor  with  emphasis  ;  "  she  has  the 
temper  of  the  old  demon.  If  I  had  anything  to  do  with 
that  child,  I  should  whip  her  within  an  inch  of  her  life — 
that's  all  she  wants,  lots  of  whipping.  The  Lord  only  knows 
the  future,  but  I  pity  her  prospective  husband." 

"  'I'he  taming  of  the  shrew,"  laughed  Mr.  Knight. 
"Katharine  and  Petruchio  over  again.  For  my  part,  I 
think  Lady  Thetford  was  unwise   to  undertake  such   a 


>r 


270 


S//!  NOEUS  HEIR. 


charge.     With  her  delicate  health  it  is  altogether  too  much 
for  her." 

The  two  gentlemen  were  shown  into  the  library,  while 
the  servant  went  to  inform  his  lady  of  their  arrival.  The 
library  had  a  French  window  opening  upon  a  sloping  lawn 
and  here,  chasing  butterflies  in  high  glee,  were  the  two 
children — the  pale,  dark-eyed  baronet,  and  the  flaxen- 
tressed  little  East  Indian. 

"  Look,"  said  Dr.  Gale.  "  Is  Sir  Rupert  going  to  be 
your  Petruchio?  Who  knows  what  the  future  may  bring 
forth — who  knows  that  we  do  not  behold  the  future  Lady 
Thetford  ? " 

"  She  is  very  pretty,"  said  the  rector,  thoughtfully,  "  and 
she  may  change  with  years.  Your  prophecy  may  be 
fulfilled." 

The  present  Lady  Thetford  entered  as  he  spoke.  She 
had  heard  the  remarks  of  both,  and  there  was  an  unusual 
pallor  and  gravity  in  her  face  as  she  advanced  to  receive 
them. 

Little  Sir  Rupert  was  called  in,  May  followed,  with 
a  butterfly  crushed  to  death  in  each  fat  little  hand. 

"  She  kills  them  as  fast  as  she  catches  them,"  said  Sir 
Rupert,  ruefully.     "  It's  cruel,  isn't  it,  mamma  ? " 

Little  May,  quite  abashed,  displayed  her  dead  prizes, 
and  cut  short  the  doctor's  conference  by  impatiently  pull- 
ing her  play-fellow  away. 

**  Come,  Rupert,  come,"  she  cried.  "  I  want  to  catch 
the  black  one  with  the  yellow  wings.  Stick  your  tongue 
out  and  come." 

Sir  Rupert  displayed  his  tongue,  and  submitted  his 
pulse  to  the  doctor,  and  let  himself  be  pulled  away  by 
May. 


1.1  .nwiinii  Bjnnummpw  J 


^-rrrrrrrrnri^^w 


CAP/:  EVERARD. 


271 


"  The  gray  mare  in  that  team  is  decidedly  the  better 
horse,"  laughed  the  doctor.  "What  a  little  despot  in 
pinafores  it  is." 

When  her  visitors  had  left,  Lady  Thetford  walked  to  the 
window  and  stood  watching  the  two  children  racing  in  the 
sunshine.  It  was  a  pretty  sight,  but  the  lady's  face  was 
contracted  with  a  look  of  pain. 

"No,  no,"  she  thought.  "I  hope  not— I  pray  not. 
Strange  1  but  I  never  thought  of  the  possibility  before. 
She  will  be  poor,  and  Rupert  must  marry  a  rich  wife,  so 
that  if—" 

She  paused  with  a  sort  of  shudder ;  then  added, 

"What  will  he  think,  my  darling  boy,  of  his  father  and 
mother,  if  that  day  ever  comes !  " 


CHAPTER  IV. 

MRS.    WEYMORE, 


ADY  THETFORD  had  settled  her  business 
satisfactorily  with  the  re':tor  of  St.  Gosport. 

"  Nothing  could  be  more  opportune,"  he  said. 
"  I  am  going  to  London  next  week  on  business, 
which  will  detain  me  upwards  of  a  fortnight.  I  will  im 
mediately  advertise  for  such  a  person  as  you  want." 

"  You  must  imdcrstand,"  said  her  ladyship,  "  I  do  not 
require  a  young  girl.  I  wish  a  middie-.aged  person — a 
widow,  for  instance,  who  has  had  children  of  her  own. 
Both  Rupert  and  May  are  spoiled — May  particularly  is 
perfectly  unman.ageable.  A  young  girl  as  governess  for 
her  would  never  do." 

Mr.  Knight  departed  with  these  instructions,  and  the 
following  week  started  for  the  great  metropolis.  An  ad- 
vertisement was  at  once  inserted  in  the  Times  newspaper, 
stating  all  Lady  Thetford's  requirements,  and  desiring  im- 
mediate application.  Another  week  later,  and  Lady  Thet- 
ford  received  the  followiug  communication  : 

"Dear  Lady  Thetford — I  have  been  fairly  besieged 
with  applications  for  the  past  week — all  widows,  and  all 
professing  to  be  thoroughly  competent.  Clergymen's  wid- 
ows, doctor's  widows,  officer's  widows — all  sorts  of  wid- 
ows.     I  never  before  thought  so  many  could  apply   for 


:'sai 


wmmmmr*-' 


MRS.  WEVMOliE. 


273 


one  situation.  I  have  chosen  one  in  sheer  desperation 
— the  widow  of  a  country  gentleman  in  distressed  cir- 
cumstances, whom  I  thinlt  will  suit.  She  is  eminently  re- 
spectable in  appearance,  quiet  and  lady-like  in  manner, 
with  five  years'  experience  in  the  nursery-governess  line, 
and  the  highest  recommendation  from  her  late  employers. 
She  has  lost  a  child,  she  tells  me  ;  and  from  her  looks 
and  manner  altogether,  I  should  judge  she  was  a  person 
conversant  with  misfortune.  She  will  return  with  me  early 
next  week — her  name  is  Mrs.  Weymore." 


Lady  Thetford  read  this  letter  with  a  little  sigh  of  relief- 
some  one  else  would  have  the  temper  and  outbreaks  of  little 
May  to  contend  with  now.  She  wrote  to  Captain  Ever- 
ard  that  same  day,  to  announce  his  daughter's  well  being, 
and  inform  him  that  she  had  found  a  suitable  governess 
to  take  charge  of  her. 

The  second  day  of  the  ensuing  week  the  rector  and  the 
new  governess  arrived.  A  fly  from  the  railway  brought 
her  and  her  luggage  to  Thetford  Towers  late  in  the  after- 
noon, and  she  was  taken  at  once  to  the  room  that  had 
been  prepared  for  her,  whilst  the  servant  went  to  inform 
Lady  Thetford  of  her  arrival. 

"  Fetch  her  here  at  once,"  said  her  ladyship,  who  was 
alone,  as  usual,  in  the  long  drawing-room,  with  the  chil- 
dren, "  I  wish  to  see  her." 

Ten  minutes  after,  the  drawing-room  door  was  flung 
open,  and  "  Mrs.  Weymore,  my  lady,"  announced  the  foot- 
man. 

Lady  Thetford  arose  to  receive  her  new  dependent, 
who  bowed  and  stood  before  her  with  a  somewhat  flutter- 
ed and  embarrassed  air.     She  was  quite  young,  not  older 

12* 


^m 


274 


S/H  NOEVS  HEIR. 


than  my  lady  herself,  and  eminently  good-looking.  The 
tall,  slender  figure,  clad  in  widow's  weeds,  was  as  sym- 
metrical as  Lady  Thetford's  own,  and  the  dull  black  dress 
set  off  the  pearly  fairness  of  the  blonde  skin,  and  the  rich 
abundance  of  fair  hair.  Lady  Thetford's  brows  contract- 
ed a  little  ;  this  fair,  subdued,  gentle-looking,  girlish  young 
woman,  was  hardly  the  strong-minded,  middle-aged  ma- 
tron she  had  expected  to  take  the  nonsense  out  of  obstrep- 
erous May  Everard. 

"  Mrs.  Weymore,  I  believe,"  said  Lady  Thelford,  resum- 
ing \\cr  faitteuil,  "  pray  be  seated.  I  wished  to  see  you  at 
once,  because  I  am  going  out  this  evening.  You  have  had 
five  years'  experience  as  a  nursery-governess,  Mr.  Knight 
tells  me  ? " 

•'  Yes,  Lady  Thetford." 

There  was  a  little  tremor  in  Mrs.  Weymore's  low  voice, 
and  her  blue  eyes  shifted  and  fell  under  Lady  Thetford's 
steady,  and  somewhat  haughty  gaze. 

"  Yet  you  look  young — much  younger  than  I  imagined, 
or  wished." 

"  I  am  twenty-seven  years  old,  my  lady." 

That  was  my  lady's  own  age  precisely,  but  she  looked 
half  a  dozen  years  the  elder  of  the  two. 

"  Are  you  a  native  of  London  ?  " 

"No,  my  lady — of  Berkshire." 

"  And  you  have  been  a  widow,  how  long  ? " 

What  ailed  Mrs.  Weymore?  She  was  all  white  and 
trembling — even  her  hands,  folded  and  pressed  together 
in  her  lap,  shook  in  spite  of  her. 

"  Eight  years  and  more." 

She  said  it  with  a  sort  of  sob,  hysterically  choked.  Lady 
Thetford  looked  on  surprised,  and  a  trifie  displeased.  She 


■  1 


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MRS.  lyiiVAfO/iE. 


27S 


was  .1  very  proud  woman,  and  certainly  wished  for  no 
scene  with  her  hiied  dependents. 

"  Ei};ht  years  is  a  tolerable  time,"  she  said,  coolly.  "You 
have  lost  children  ?" 

"  One,  my  lady." 

Again  that  choked,  hysterical  sob.  My  lady  went  on 
pitilessly. 

"  Is  it  long  ago  ? " 

"  When — when  I  lost  its  father." 

"Ahl  both  together?  That  was  rather  hard.  Well,  1 
hope  you  understand  the  management  of  children — spoil- 
ed ones  particularly.  Here  are  the  two  you  are  to  take 
charge  of.     Rupert — May,  come  here." 

The  children  came  over  from  their  corner.  Mrs.  Wey- 
more  drew  May  towards  her,  but  Sir  Rupert  held  aloof. 

"  That  is  my  ward — this  is  my  son.  I  presume  Mr. 
Knight  has  told  you.  If  you  can  subdue  the  temper  of 
that  child,  you  will  prove  yourself,  indeed,  a  treasure.  The 
east  rarlor  has  been  fitted  up  for  your  use ;  the  children  will 
take  their  meals  there  with  you  ;  the  room  adjoining  is  to 
be  the  school-room.  I  have  appointed  one  of  the  maids 
to  wait  on  you.  I  trust  you  find  your  chamber  comfort- 
able." 

"  Exceedingly  so,  my  lady." 

'•'  And  the  terms  proposed  by  Mr.  Knight  suit  you  ? " 

Mrs  Weymore  bowed.  Lady  Thetford  rose  to  close  the 
interview. 

"  You  must  need  refreshment  and  rest  after  your  jour- 
ney. I  will  not  detain  you  longer.  To-morrow  your  du- 
ties commence." 

She  rang  the  bell— directed  the  servant  who  came  to 
show  the  governess  to  the  east  parlor  and  to  see  to  her 


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wants,  and  then  to  send  nurse  for  the  children.  Fifteen 
minutes  after  she  drove  away  in  the  pony-phston  ;  whilst 
the  new  frovernes's  stood  by  the  window  of  the  ear^t  parlor, 
and  watched  her  vanish  in  the  amber  haze  of  the  August 
sunset. 

Lady  Thetford's  business  in  St.  Gosport  detained  her  a 
couple  of  hours.  The  big,  white,  August  moon  was  rising 
as  she  drove  slowly  homeward,  and  the  nightingales  sang 
their  vesper  lay  in  the  scented  hedge-rows.  As  she  passed 
the  rectory,  she  saw  Mr.  Knight  leaning  over  his  own  gate, 
enjoying  the  placid  beauty  of  the  summer  evening  ;  and 
Lady  Thetford  reined  in  her  ponies  to  speak  to  him. 

"  So  happy  to  see  your  ladj'ship.  Won't  you  alight 
and  come  in  ?     Mrs.  Knight  will  be  delighted." 

"Not  this  evening,  I  think.  Had  you  much  trouble 
about  my  business  ?  " 

"  I  had  applications  enough,  certainly,"  laughed  the  rec- 
tor. "  I  had  reason  to  remember  Mr.  Weller's  immortal 
advice,  '  Beware  of  widders.'  How  do  you  like  your  gov- 
erness ? " 

"  I  have  hardly  had  time  to  form  an  opinion.  She  is 
younger  than  I  should  desire." 

"  She  looks  much  younger  than  the  age  s  e  gives,  I 
know ;  but  that  is  a  common  case.  I  trust  my  choice  will 
prove  satisfactory — her  references  are  excellent.  Your 
ladyship  has  had  an  interview  with  her  ?  ' 

"  A  very  brief  one.  Her  manner  struck  me  unpleasant- 
ly— so  odd,  and  shy,  and  nervous.  I  hardly  know  how 
to  characterize  it ;  but  she  may  be  a  paragon  of  governesses, 
for  all  that.  Good-evening;  best  regards  to  Mrs.  Knight. 
Call  soon  and  see  how  yawx protegi  gets  on." 

Lady  Thetford  drove  away.     As  she  alighted  from  the 


i 


^ 


1 


AfRS.    IVEVAfORE. 


277 


i^ 


pony-carriage  and  ascended  the  great  front  steps  of  the 
house,  she  saw  the  pale  governess  still  seated  at  the  win- 
dow of  the  east  parlor,  gazing  dejectedly  out  at  the  silvery 
moonlight. 

"  A  most  woeful  countenance,"  thought  my  lady.  "  There 
is  some  deeper  grief  than  the  loss  of  a  husband  and  child 
eight  years  ago,  the  matter  with  that  woman.  I  don't  like 
her." 

No,  Lady  Thetford  did  not  like  the  meek  and  submis- 
sive-looking governess,  but  the  children  and  the  rest  of  the 
household  did.  Sir  Rupert  and  little  May  took  to  her  at 
once — her  gentle  voice,  her  tender  smile  seemed  to  win 
its  way  to  their  capricious  favor ;  and  before  the  end  of 
the  first  week,  she  had  more  influence  over  them  than 
mother  and  nurse  together.  The  subdued  and  gentle  gov- 
erness soon  had  the  love  of  all  at  Thetford  Towers,  except 
its  mistress,  from  Mrs.  Hilliard,  the  stately  housekeeper, 
down.  She  was  so  courteous  and  considerate,  so  anxious 
to  avoid  giving  trouble.  Above  all,  that  fixed  expression 
of  settled  sadness  on  her  pale  face,  made  its  way  to 
every  heart.  She  had  full  charge  of  the  children  now ; 
they  took  their  meals  with  her,  and  she  had  them  in  her 
keeping  the  best  part  of  the  day — an  office  that  was  no 
sinecure.  When  they  were  with  their  nurse,  or  my  lady, 
the  governess  sat  alone  in  the  east  parlor,  looking  out 
dreamily  at  the  summer  landscape,  with  her  own  brooding 
thoughts. 

One  evening,  when  she  had  been  at  Thetford  Towers 
over  a  fortnight,  Mrs.  Hilliard,  coming  in,  found  her  sitting 
dreamily  by  herself,  neither  reading  nor  working.  The 
children  were  in  the  drawing-room,  and  her  duties  were 
over  for  the  day. 


m 


278 


S/7i  NOELS  HEIR. 


"  I  am  afraid  you  don't  make  yourself  at  home  here," 
said  the  good-natured  housekeeper ;  "  you  stay  too  much 
alone,  and  it  isn't  good  for  young  people  like  you." 

"  I  am  used  to  solitude,"  replied  the  governess,  with  a 
smile  that  ended  in  a  sigh,  "  and  I  have  grown  to  like  it. 
Will  you  take  a  seat  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Milliard.  "  I  heard  you  say  the  other 
day  you  would  like  to  go  over  the  house  ;  so,  as  I  have  a 
couple  of  hours'  leisure,  I  will  show  it  to  you  now." 

The  governess  rose  eagerly. 

"I  have  been  wanting  to  see  it  so  much,"  she  said, 
"  but  I  feared  to  give  trouble  by  asking.  It  is  very  good 
of  you  to  think  of  me,  dear  Mrs.  Hilliard." 

"  She  isn't  much  used  to  people  thinking  of  her,"  re- 
flected the  housekeeper,  "  or  she  wouldn't  be  so  grateful 
for  trifles.  Let  me  see,"  aloud,  "you  have  seen  the  draw- 
ing-room, and  the  library,  and  that  is  all,  except  your  own 
apartments.  Well  come  this  way,  I'll  show  you  the  old 
south-wing." 

Through  long  corridors,  up  wide,  black,  slippery  stair- 
cases, into  vast,  unused  rooms,  where  ghostly  echoes  and 
darkness  had  it  all  to  themselves,  Mrs.  Hilliard  led  the 
governess. 

"  These  apartments  have  been  unused  since  before  the 
late  Sir  Noel's  time,"  said  Mrs.  Hilliard  ;  "  his  father  kept 
them  full  in  the  hunting  season,  and  at  Christmas  time. 
Since  Sir  Noel's  death,  my  lady  has  shut  herself  up  and 
received  no  company,  and  gone  nowhere.  She  is  begin- 
ning to  go  out  more  of  late  than  she  has  done  ever  since 
his  death." 

Mrs.  Hilliard  was  not  looking  at  the  governess,  or  she 
might  have  been  surprised  at  the  nervous  restlessness  and 


MRS.    IVEYMORE. 


279 


agitation  of  her  manner,  as  she  listened  to  these  very  com- 
monplace remarks. 

"  Lady  Thetford  was  very  much  attached  to  her  husband, 
then  ?  "  Mrs.  Weymore  said,  her  voice  tremulous. 

"  Ah  !  that  she  was  1  She  must  have  been,  for  his  death 
nearly  killed  her.  It  was  sudden  enough,  and  shocking 
enough,  goodness  knows  I  I  shall  never  forget  that  dread- 
ful night.  This  is  the  old  banqueting-hall,  Mrs.  Weymore, 
the  largest  and  dreariest  room  in  the  house." 

Mrs.  Weymore,  trembling  very  much,  either  with  cold 
or  that  unaccountable  nervousness  of  hers,  hardly  looked 
round  at  the  vast  wilderness  of  a  room. 

"  You  were  with  the  late  Sir  Noel  then,  when  he  died  ? " 

"  Yes,  until  my  lady  came.  Ah  !  it  was  a  dreadful 
thing  ?  He  had  taken  her  to  a  ball,  and  riding  home  his 
horse  thtew  him.  We  sent  for  the  doctor  and  my  lady  at 
once  ;  and  when  she  came,  all  white  and  scared-like,  he 
sent  us  out  of  the  room.  He  was  as  calm  and  sensible  as 
you  or  me,  but  he  seemed  to  have  something  on  his  mind. 
My  lady  was  shut  up  with  him  for  about  three  hours,  and 
then  we  went  in — Dr.  Gale  and  me.  I  shall  never  forget 
that  sad  sight.  Poor  Sir  Noel  was  dead,  and  she  was 
kneeling  beside  him  in  her  ball-dress,  like  somebody  turned 
to  stone.  I  spoke  to  her,  and  she  looked  up  at  me,  and 
then  fell  back  in  my  arms  in  a  fainting  fit.  Are  you  cold, 
Mrs.  Weymore,  that  you  shake  so  ? " 

«<  No — yes — it  is  this  desolate  room,  I  think,"  the  gover- 
ness answered,  hardly  able  to  speak. 

"  It  is  desolate.  Come,  I'll  show  you  the  billiard-room  ; 
and  then  we'll  go  up  stairs  to  the  room  Sir  Noel  died  in. 
Everything  remains  just  as  it  was — no  one  has  ever  slept 
there  since.     If  you  only  knew,  Mrs.  Weymore,  what  a  sad 


fP 


28o 


S//i  AVE/JS  HEIR. 


time  it  was ;  but  you  do  know,  poor  dear,  you  have  lost 
a  husband  yourself." 

The  governess  flung  up  her  hands  before  her  face  with 
a  suppressed  sob,  so  full  of  anguish  that  the  housekeeper 
stared  at  her  aghast.  Almost  as  quickly  she  recovered 
herself  again. 

"Don't  mind  me,"  she  said,  in  a  choking  voice,  "I  can't 
help  it.  You  don't  know  ■■hat  I  suffered — what  I  still 
suffer.    Oh,  pray,  don't  mind  me." 

"  Certainly  not,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Hilliard,  thinking 
inwardly  the  governess  was  a  very  odd  person  indeed. 

They  looked  at  the  billiard-room,  where  the  tables  stood, 
dusty  and  disused,  and  the  balls  lay  idly  by. 

"  I  don't  know  when  it  will  be  used  again,"  said  Mrs. 
Hilliard,  "  perhaps  not  until  Sir  Rupert  grows  up.  There 
was  a  time,"  lowering  her  voice,  "when  I  thought  he  would 
never  live  to  be  as  old  and  strong  as  he  is  now.  He  was 
the  punyi.,t  baby,  Mrs.  Weymore,  you  ever  looked  at — no- 
body thought  he  would  live.  And  that  would  have  been 
a  pity,  you  know,  for  the  Thetford  estate  would  have 
gone  to  a  distant  branch  of  the  family.  As  it  would,  too,  if 
Sir  Rupert  had  been  a  girl." 

She  went  up  stairs  to  the  inhabited  part  of  the  building, 
followed  by  Mrs.  Weymore,  who  seemed  to  grow  more  and 
more  agitated  with  every  word  the  old  housekeeper  said. 

"  This  is  Sir  Noel's  room,"  said  Mrs.  Hilliard,  in  an 
awe-struck  whisper,  as  if  the  dead  man  still  lay  there  ;  "  no 
one  ever  enters  here  but  me." 

She  unlocked  it,  as  she  spoke,  and  went  in.  Mrs.  Wey- 
more followed  with  a  face  of  frightened  pallor  that  struck 
even  the  housekeeper. 

"  Good  gracious  me !     Mrs.  Weymore,  what  is  the  mat- 


MRS.    IVKVMORE. 


281 


ter  ?    You  are  as  pale  as  a  ghost.     Are  you  afraid  to  enter 
a  room  where  a  person  has  died  ?  " 

Mrs.  Weymore's  reply  was  almost  inaudible  ;  she  stood 
on  the  threshold,  pallid,  trembling,  unaccountably  moved. 
The  housekeeper  glanced  at  her  suspiciously. 

"  Very  odd,"  she  thought,  "  very  !  The  new  governess 
is  either  the  most  nervous  person  I  ever  met,  or  else — no, 
she  can't  have  known  Sir  Noel  in  his  lifetime.  Of  course 
not." 

They  left  the  chamber  after  a  cursory  glance  around — 
Mrs.  Weymore  never  advancing  beyond  the  threshold. 
She  had  not  spoken,  and  that  white  pallor  made  her  face 
ghastly  still. 

"  I'll  show  you  the  picture-gallery,"  said  Mrs.  Hilliard  ; 
"  and  then,  I  believe,  you  will  have  seen  all  that  is  worth 
seeing  at  Thetford  Towers." 

She  led  the  way  to  a  half-lighted  room,  wainscoted  and 
antique,  like  all  the  rest,  where  long  rows  of  dead  and 
gone  Thetfords  looked  down  from  the  carved  walls. 
There  were  knights  in  armor  ;  countesses  in  ruffles,  and 
powder,  and  lace  ;  bishops  mitre  on  head  and  crnzier  in 
hand  ;  and  judges  in  gown  and  wig.  There  were  ladies 
in  pointed  stomachers  and  jewelled  fans,  with  the  waists  of 
their  dresses  under  their  arms,  but  all  fair  and  handsome, 
and  unmistakably  alike.  Last  of  all  the  long  array,  there 
was  Sir  Noel,  a  fair-haired,  handsome  youth  of  twenty, 
with  a  smile  on  his  face,  and  a  happy  radiance  in  his  blue 
eyes.  And  by  his  side,  dark,  and  haughty,  and  beautiful, 
was  my  lady  in  her  bridal-robes. 

"  There  is  not  a  handsomer  face  amongst  them  all  than 
my  lady's,"  said  Mrs.  Hilliard,  with  pride.  "You  ought 
to  have  seen  her  when  Sir  Noel  first  brought  her  home, 


M 


282 


S/H  NOELS  HEIR. 


she  was  the  most  beautiful  creature  I  ever  looked  at.  Ah  I 
it  was  such  a  pity  he  was  killed.  I  suppose  they'll  be 
having  Sir  Rupert's  taken  next  and  hung  beside  her.  He 
don't  look  much  like  the  Thetfords  ;  he's  his  mother  over 
again — a  Vandeleur,  dark  and  still." 

If  Mrs.  Weymore  made  any  reply,  the  housekeeper  did 
not  catch  it;  she  was  standing  with  her  face  averted,  hai-dly 
looking  at  the  portraits,  and  was  the  first  to  leave  the  pic- 
ture-gallery. 

There  were  a  few  more  rooms  to  be  seen — a  drawing- 
room  suite,  now  closed  and  disused ;  an  ancient  library, 
with  a  wonderful  stained  window,  and  a  vast  echoing  re- 
ception-room. But  it  was  all  over  at  last,  and  Mrs.  Hilliard, 
with  her  keys,  trotted  cheerfully  off ;  and  Mrs.  Weymore 
was  left  to  solitude  and  her  own  thoughts  once  more. 

A  strange  person,  certainly.  She  locked  the  door  and 
fell  down  on  her  knees  by  the  bedside,  sobbing  until  her 
whole  form  was  convulsed. 

"  Oh !  why  did  I  come  here  ?  Why  did  I  come  here  ? " 
came  passionately  with  the  wild  storm  of  sobs.  "  I  might 
have  known  how  it  would  be  !  Nearly  nine  years — ^nine 
long,  long  years,  and  not  to  have  forgotten  yet ! " 


CHAPTER  V. 


A  JOURNEY  TO  LONDON. 


J 


ERY  slowly,  very  monotonously  went  life  at 
Thetford  Towers.  The  only  noticeable  change 
was  that  my  lady  went  rather  more  into  society, 
and  a  greater  number  of  visitors  came  to  the 
manor.  There  had  been  a  children's  party  on  the  occasion 
of  Sir  Rupert's  eighth  birthday,  and  Mrs.  Weymore  had 
played  for  the  little  people  to  dance  ;  and  my  lady  had 
cast  off  her  chronic  gloom,  and  been  handsome  and  happy 
as  of  old.  There  had  been  a  dinner-party  later — an  un- 
precedented event  now  at  Thetford  Towers ;  and  the 
weeds,  worn  so  long,  had  been  discarded,  and  in  diamonds 
and  black  velvet  Lady  Thetford  had  been  beautiful,  and 
stately,  and  gracious,  as  a  young  queen.  No  one  knew  the 
reason  of  the  sudden  change,  but  they  accepted  the  fact 
just  as  they  found  it,  and  set  it  down,  perhaps,  to  woman's 
caprice. 

So,  slowly  the  summer  passed  ;  autumn  came  and  went, 
and  it  was  December,  and  the  ninth  anniversay  of  Sir 
Noel's  sudden  death. 

A  gloomy,  day — wet,  and  bleakly  cold.  The  wind, 
sweeping  over  the  angry  sea,  surged  and  roared  through 
the  skeleton  trees;  the  rain  lashed  the  windows  in  rattling 
gusts ;  and  the  leaden  sky  hung  low  and  frowning  over 
the  drenched  and  dreary  earth.  A  dismal  day — very  like 
that  other,  nine  years  ago,  that  had  been  Sir  Noel's  last. 


m 


284 


S//i  NOELS  HEIR. 


In  Lady  Thetford's  boudoir  a  bright-red  coal-fire  blazed. 
I'ale-blue  curtains  of  satin  damask  shut  out  the  winter 
prospect,  and  the  softest  and  richest  of  bright  carpets 
hushed  every  footfall.  Hefore  the  fire,  on  a  little  table, 
my  1  uly's  breakfast  temptingly  stood  ;  tlie  silver,  old  and 
qua'  it;  the  rare  antique  porcelain  sparkling  in  the  ruddy 
firelight.  An  easy-chair,  carved  and  gilded,  and  cushion- 
ed in  azure  velvet,  stood  by  the  table  ;  and  near  my  lady's 
plate  lay  the  letters  and  papers  the  morning's  mail  had 
brought. 

A  toy  of  a  clock  on  the  low  marble  mantel  chimed  musi- 
cally ten  as  my  lady  entered.  In  her  dainty  morning 
negli};ce,  with  her  dark  hair  rippling  and  falling  low  on  her 
neck,  she  looked  very  young,  and  fair,  and  graceful.  Be- 
hind her  came  her  maid,  a  blooming  English  girl,  who  took 
off  the  covers,  and  poured  out  my  lady's  chocolate. 

Lady  Thetford  sank  languidly  into  the  azure  velvet 
depths  of  her  chair  and  took  up  her  letters.  There  were 
three — one,  a  note  from  her  man  of  business ;  one,  an 
invitation  to  a  dinner-party ;  and  the  third,  a  big  official- 
looking  document,  with  a  huge  seal,  and  no  end  of  post- 
marks. The  languid  eyes  suddenly  lighted  ;  the  pale  cheeks 
flushed  as  she  took  it  eagerly  up.  It  was  a  letter  from 
India  from  Captain  Everard. 

Lady  Thetford  sipped  her  chocolate,  and  read  her  letter 
leisurely,  with  her  slippered  feet  on  the  shining  fender. 
It  was  a  long  letter,  and  she  read  it  over,  slowly,  twice,  three 
times  before  she  laid  it  down.  She  finished  her  breakfast, 
motioned  her  maid  to  remove  the  service,  and  lying  back 
in  her  chair,  with  her  deep,  dark  eyes  fixed  dreamily  on  the 
fire,  she  fell  into  a  reverie  of  other  days  far  gone.  The 
lover  of  her  girlhood  came  back  to  her  from  over  the  sea. 


A  yOUJiA'EV  TO  LOA'DOX. 


285 


He  was  lying  at  her  feet  once  more  in  the  long  summer 
days,  under  the  waving  trees  of  her  girlhood's  home.  Ah  ! 
how  happy,  how  happy  siie  hiul  been  in  those  bygone  diys, 
before  Sir  Noel  Thelford  had  come,  with  his  wealth  and  his 
title,  to  tempt  her  from  her  love  and  trutli. 

Eleven  struck,  twelve,  from  tlie  musical  clock  on  the 
mantel,  and  still  my  lady  sat,  living  in  the  past.  Outside 
the  wintry  storm  raged  on  ;  the  rain  clamored  against  the 
curtained  glass,  and  the  wind  sighed  among  the  trees.  With 
a  long  sigh  my  lady  awoke  from  her  dream,  and  mechanically 
took  up  the  Times  newspaper — the  first  of  the  little  heap. 

"  Vain,  vain,"  she  thought,  dreamily  ;  "  worse  than  vain 
those  dreams  now.  With  my  own  hand  I  threw  back  the 
heart  that  loved  me  ;  of  my  own  free  will  I  resigned  the  man 
I  loved.  And  now  the  old  love,  that  I  thought  would  die  in 
the  splendor  of  my  new  life,  is  stronger  than  ever — and  it 
is  nine  years  too  late." 

She  tried  to  wrench  her  thoughts  away  and  fix  them  on  her 
newspaper.  In  vain !  her  eyes  wandered  aimlessly  over 
the  closely-printed  columns — her  mind  was  in  India  with 
Captain  Everard.  All  at  once  she  started,  uttered  a  sudden, 
sharp  cry,  and  grasped  the  paper  with  dilated  eyes  and 
whitening  cheeks.  At  the  top  of  a  column  of  "  personal  " 
advertisements  was  one  which  her  strained  eyes  literally 
devoured. 

"  If  Mr.  Vyking,  who  ten  years  ago  left  a  male  infant 
in  charge  of  Mrs.  Martha  Brand,  wishes  to  keep  that  child 
out  of  the  work-house,  he  will  call,  within  the  next  five  days, 
at  No.  17  Waddington  Street,  Lambeth." 

Again  and  again,  and  again  Lady  Thetford  read  this 
apparently  uninteresting  advertisement.  Slowly  the  paper 
dropped  into  her  lap,  and  she  sat  staring  blankly  into  the  fire. 


■ 


286 


S//f  AOICVS  IIKIR. 


"  At  last !  "  she  thought,  "  at  last  it  has  come.  I  fancied 
all  clanger  was  over— that  death,  perhaps,  had  forestalled 
me  ;  and  now,  after  all  these  years,  I  am  summoned  to 
keep  my  broken  promise  !  " 

I'he  hue  of  death  had  settled  on  her  face  ;  she  sat  cold 
and  rigid,  staring  with  that  blank,  fixed  ga/e  into  the  fire. 
Ceaselessly  beat  the  rain  ;  wilder  grew  the  December  day  ; 
steadily  the  moments  wore  on,  and  still  she  sat  in  that  fixed 
trance.  Tiie  ormolu  clock  struck  two — the  sound  aroused 
her  at  last. 

"  I  must !  "  she  said,  setting  her  teeth.  "  I  will  1  My 
boy  shall  not  lose  his  birthright,  come  what  may." 

She  rose  and  rang  the  bell — very  pale,  but  quite  calm. 
Her  maid  answered  the  summons. 

"  Eliza,"  my  lady  asked,  "  at  what  hour  does  the  after- 
noon train  leave  St.  Gosport  for  London  ? " 

Eliza  stared — did  not  know ;  but  would  ascertain.  In 
live  minutes  she  was  back. 

"  At  half-past  three,  my  lady;  and  another  at  seven." 
Lady  Thetford  glanced  at  the  clock — it  was  a  quarter 
past  two. 

"  Tell  William  to  have  the  carriage  at  the  door  at  a 
quarter-past  three  ;  and  do  you  pack  my  dressing-case,  and 
the  few  things  I  shall  need  for  two  or  three  days'  absence. 
I  am  going  to  London." 

Eliza  stood  for  a  moment  quite  petrified.  In  all  the 
nine  years  of  her  service  under  my  lady,  no  such  order  as 
this  had  ever  been  received.  To  go  to  London  at  a 
moment's  notice — my  lady,  who  rarely  went  beyond  her 
own  park  gates  !  Turning  away,  not  quite  certain  that  her 
ears  had  not  deceived  her,  my  lady's  voice  arrested 
her. 


% 


A  JOURNEY  TO  LONDON. 


•87 


"  Send  Mrs.  Weymore  to  me  ;  and  do  you  lose  no  time 
in  packing  up." 

Kli/a  departed.  Mrs.  Weymore  appeared.  My  lady 
had  some  instructions  to  give  concerning  the  childrtMi 
during  her  absence.  Then  the  governess  was  dismissed, 
and  she  was  again  alone. 

Through  the  wind  and  rain  of  the  wintry  storm,  L:  dy 
Thetford  was  driven  to  the  station  in  time  to  catch  the 
three-fifty  train  to  the  metropolis.  She  went  unattended  ; 
with  no  message  to  any  one,  only  saying  she  would  be 
back  in  three  days  at  the  farthest. 

Ir  that  dull  household,  where  so  few  events  ever  disturbed 
the  stagnant  quiet,  this  sudden  journey  produced  an  in- 
describable sensation.  What  could  have  t.iken  my  lady 
to  London  at  a  moment's  notice  ?  Some  urgent  reason  it 
must  have  been  to  force  her  out  of  the  gloomy  seclusion 
in  which  she  had  buried  herself  since  her  husband's 
death.  But,  discuss  it  as  they  might,  they  could  come  no 
nearer  the  heart  of  the  mystery. 


GUY. 

HE  rainy  December  day  closed  iii  a  rainier 
night.  Another  day  dawned  on  the  world,  sun- 
less, and  chilly,  and  overcast  still. 
It  dawned  on  London  in  murky,  yellow  fog, 
on  sloppj',  muddy  streets — in  gloom  and  dreariness,  and  a 
raw,  easterly  wind.  In  the  densely  populated  streets  of 
the  district  of  Lambeth,  where  poverty  huddled  in  tall, 
gaunt  buildings,  the  dismal  light  stole  murkily  and  slowly 
over  the  crowded,  filthy  streets,  and  swarming  purlieus. 

In  a  small  upper  room  of  a  large  dilapidated  house, 
this  bad  December  morning,  a  painter  stood  at  his  easel. 
The  room  was  bare,  and  cold,  and  comfortless  in  the  ex- 
treme ;  the  painter  was  middle-aged,  small,  brown,  and 
shrivelled,  and  very  much  out  at  elbows.  The  dull,  gray 
light  fell  full  on  his  work — no  inspiration  of  genius  by  any 
means — only  the  portrait,  coarsely  colored,  of  a  fat,  well- 
to-do  butcher's  daughter  round  the  corner.  The  man 
was  Joseph  Legard,  scene-painter  to  one  of  the  minor 
city  theatres,  who  eked  out  his  slender  income  by  painting 
portraits  when  he  could  get  them  to  paint.  He  was  as 
fond  of  his  art  as  any  of  the  great  old  masters ;  but  he 
had  only  one  attribute  in  common  with  those  immortals — 
extreme  poverty;  for  his  family  was  large,  and  Mr.  Le- 
gard found  it  a  tight  fit,  indeed,  to  "  make  both  ends  meet." 


i« 


GL/y. 


289 


He  stood  over  his  work  this  dull  morning,  however,  in  his 
fireless  room,  with  a  cheerful,  brown  face,  whistling  a  tune. 
In  the  adjoining  room,  he  could  hear  his  wife's  voice  raised 
shrilly,  and  the  cries  of  half  n  dozen  Legards.  He  was 
used  to  it,  and  it  did  not  disturb  him  ;  and  he  painted  and 
whistled  cheerily,  touching  up  the  butcher's  daughter's 
snub  nose  and  fat  cheeks,  and  double  chin,  until  light  foot- 
steps came  running  up  stairs,  and  the  door  was  flung  wide 
by  an  impetuous  hand.  A  boy  of  ten,  or  thereabouts, 
came  in — a  bright-eyed,  fair-haired  lad,  with  a  handsome, 
resolute  face,  and  eyes  of  cloudless,  Saxon  blue. 

"  Ah,  Guy !  "  said  the  scene-painter,  turning  round  and 
nodding  good-humoredly.  "  I've  been  expecting  you. 
What  do  you  think  of  Miss  Jenkins  ?  " 

The  boy  looked  at  the  picture  with  the  glance  of  an 
embryo  connoisseur. 

"  It's  as  like  her  as  two  peas,  Joe  ;  or  would  be,  if  her 
hair  was  a  little  redder,  and  her  nose  a  little  thicker,  and 
the  freckles  were  plainer.     But  it  looks  like  her  as  it  is." 

"  Well,  you  see  Guy,"  said  the  painter,  going  on  with 
Miss  Jenkins'  left  eyebrow,  "  it  don't  do  to  make  'em  too 
true — people  don't  like  it ;  they  pay  their  money,  and  they 
expect  to  take  it  out  in  good  looks.  And  now,  any  news 
this  morning,  Guy  ?  " 

The  boy  leaned  against  the  window  and  looked  out  into 
the  dingy  street,  his  bright  young  face  growing  gloomy 
and  overcast. 

"  Nc,"  he  said,  moodily ;  "  there  is  no  news,  except 
that  Phil  Darking  was  drunk  last  night,  and  savage  as  a 
mad  dog  this  morning — and  that's  no  news,  I'm  sure." 

"And  nobody's  come  about  the  advertisement  in  the 
Times  t" 


290 


S/U  NOEL'S  HEIR. 


"  No,  and  never  will.  It's  all  humbug  what  granny 
iays  about  my  belonging  to  anybody  rich ;  if  I  did,  they'd 
have  seen  after  me  long  ago.  Phil  says  my  mother  was  a 
housemaid,  and  my  father  a  valet — and  they  were  only  too 
glad  to  get  me  off  their  hands.  Vyking  was  a  valet, 
granny  says  she  knows ;  and  it's  not  likely  he'll  turn  up 
after  all  these  years.  I  don't  care,  I'd  rather  go  to  the 
work-house  ;  I'd  rather  starve  in  the  streets,  than  live  an- 
other week  with  Phil  Darking." 

The  blue  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  he  dashed  them 
passionately  away.  The  painter  looked  up  with  a  dis 
tressed  face. 

"  Has  he  been  beating  you  again,  Guy  ") " 

"  It's  no  matter — he's  a  brute.  Granny  and  Ellen  are 
sorr}',  and  do  what  they  can ;  but  that's  nothing.  I  wish  I 
had  never  been  born." 

"It  is  hard,"  said  the  painter,  compassionately,  "but 
keep  up  heart,  Guy  ;  if  the  worst  comes,  why  you  can  stop 
here  and  take  pot-luck  with  the  rest — not  that  that's  much 
better  than  starvation.  You  can  take  to  my  business 
shortly  now ;  and  you'll  make  a  better  scene-painter  than 
ever  I  could.    You've  got  it  in  you." 

"Do  you  really  think  so,  Joe?"  cried  the  boy,  with 
sparkling  eyes.  "  Do  you  ?  I'd  rather  be  an  artist  than  at 
king— Halloo  1 " 

He  stopped  short  in  surprise,  staring  out  of  the  window. 
Legard  looked.  Up  the  dirty  street  came  a  Hansom  cab, 
and  stopped  at  their  own  door.  The  driver  alighted,  made 
some  inquiry,  then  opened  the  cab-door,  and  a  lady  stepped 
lighdy  out  on  the  curb-stone — a  lady  tall  and  stately, 
dressed  in  black,  and  closely  veiled. 

"Now  who  can  this  visitor  be  for?"  said   Legard. 


1 


GUV. 


291 


"  People  in  this  neighborhood  ain't  in  the  habit  of  having 
morning-calls  made  on  them  in  cabs.  She's  coming  up 
stairs." 

He  held  the  door  open,  listening.  The  lady  ascended 
the  first  flight  of  stairs,  stopped  on  the  landing,  and  in- 
quired of  some  one  for  "  Mrs.  Martha  Brand." 

"  For  granny ! "  exclaimed  the  boy.  "  Joe,  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  it  was  some  one  about  that  advertisement,  after 
all." 

"  Neither  should  I,"  said  Legard.  "  There  1  she's  gone 
in.    You'll  be  sent  for  directly,  Guy." 

Yes,  the  lady  har  gone  in.  She  had  encountered  on  the 
landing  a  sickly  young  woman,  with  a  baby  in  her  arms, 
who  had  stared  at  the  name  she  inquired  for. 

"Mrs.  Martha  Brand?  Why,  that's  mother.  Walk  in 
this  way,  if  you  please,  ma'am." 

She  opened  a  door,  and  ushered  the  veiled  lady  into  a 
small,  close  room,  poorly  furnished.  Over  a  smouldering 
fire,  mending  stockings,  sat  an  old  woman,  who,  notwith- 
standing the  extreme  shabbiness  and  poverty  of  her  dress, 
lifted  a  pleasant,  intelligent  old  face. 

"  A  lady  to  see  you,  mother,"  said  the  young  woman 
hushing  her  fretful  Lrby,  and  looking  curiously  at  the 
veiled  face. 

But  the  lady  made  no  attempt  to  raise  the  envious  screen, 
not  even  when  Mrs.  Martha  Brand  got  up,  dropping  a  re- 
spectful iittle  servant's  courtesy,  and  placing  a  chair.  It 
was  a  very  thick  veil — an  impenetrable  shield,  and  noth- 
ing could  be  discovered  of  the  face  behind  it  but  that  it  was 
fixedly  pale.  She  sank  into  the  seat,  her  face  turned  to  the 
old  woman  behind  that  sable  screen. 

"  You  are  Mrs.  Brand  ? " 


•'^ 


292 


S//i  NOEL'S  HEIR. 


The  voice  was  refined  and  patrician.  It  would  have  told 
she  was  a  lady,  even  if  the  rich  garments  she  wore  did  not. 

"  Yes,  ma'am — ^your  ladyship  ;  Martha  Brand." 

"  And  you  inserted  that  advertisement  in  the  Times  re- 
garding a  child  left  in  your  care,  ten  years  ago  ? " 

Mother  and  daughter  started,  and  stared  at  the  speaker. 

"  It  was  addressed  to  Mr.  Vyking,  who  left  the  child  in 
your  charge  j  by  which,  I  infer,  you  are  not  aware  that  he 
has  left  England." 

"Left  England,  has  he?"  said  Mrs.  Brand.  ♦'More 
shame  for  him,  then,  never  to  let  me  know,  or  leave  a 
farthing  to  support  the  boy." 

"  I  am  inclined  to  believe  it  was  not  his  fault,"  said  the 
clear,  patrician  voice.  "  He  left  England  suddenly,  and 
against  his  will ;  and  I  have  reason  to  think  will  never 
return.  But  there  are  others  interested — ^more  interested 
than  he  could  possibly  be  in  the  child,  who  remain,  and 
who  are  willing  to  take  him  off  your  hands.  But  first,  way 
is  it  you  are  so  anxious,  after  keeping  him  all  these  years, 
to  get  rid  of  him  ?  " 

"  Well,  you  see,  your  ladyship,"  replied  Martha  Brand 
"  it  is  not  me,  nor  likewise  Ellen  there,  who  is  my  daughter. 
We'd  keep  the  lad  and  welcome,  and  share  the  last  crust, 
we  had  with  him,  as  we  often  have — ^for  we're  very  poor 
people ;  but  you  see,  Ellen,  she's  married  now,  and  her 
husband  never  could  bear  Guy — that's  what  we  call  him, 
your  ladyship — Guy,  which  it  was  Mr.  Vyking's  own 
orders.  Phil  Darking,  her  husband,  never  did  like  him 
somehow,  and  when  he  gets  drunk,  saving  your  ladyship's 
presence,  he  beats  him  most  unmerciful.  And  now  we're  go- 
ing to  America — to  New  York,  where  Phil's  got  a  brother, 
and  work  is  better ;  and  he  won't  fetch  Guy.    So  your  lady- 


1 


1 


)uld  have  told 
wore  did  not. 
ind." 

the  Times  re- 
fo?" 

t  the  speaker. 

the  child  in 

ware  that  he 

md.  "  More 
V,  or  leave  a 

lit,"  said  the 
jddenly,  and 
c  will  never 
re  interested 
remain,  and 
Jut  first,  way 
these  years, 

irtha  Brand 
ly  daughter. 
5  last  crust, 
re  very  poor 
>w,  and  her 
re  call  him, 
king's  own 
id  like  him 
r  ladyship's 
>w  we're  go- 
t  a  brother, 
)  your  lady- 


G[/y. 


293 


ship,  I  thought  I'd  try  once  more  before  we  deserted  him, 
and  put  that  advertisement  in  the  Times,  which  I'm  very 
glad  I  did,  if  it  will  fetch  the  poor  lad  any  friends." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause];  then  the  lady  asked 
thoughtfully. 

"  And  when  do  you  leave  for  New  York  ? " 

"  The  day  after  to-morrow,  ma'am — and  a  long  journey 
it  is  for  a  poor  old  body  like  me." 

"  Did  you  live  here  when  Mr.  Vyking  left  the  child  with 
you — in  this  neighborhood  ?  ** 

"  Not  in  this  neighborhood,  nor  in  London  at  all,  your 
ladyship.  It  was  Lowdean,  in  Berkshire,  and  my  husband 
was  alive  at  the  time.  I  had  just  lost  my  baby,  and  the 
landlady  of  the  inn  recommended  me.  So  he  brought  it, 
and  paid  me  thirty  sovereigns,  and  promised  me  thirty  more 
every  twelvemonth,  and  told  me  to  call  it  Guy  Vyking — 
and  that  was  the  last  as  I  ever  saw  of  him." 

"And  the  infant's  mother?"  said  the  lady,  her  voice 
changing  perceptibly — do  you  know  anything  of  her  ? " 

"  But  very  little,"  said  Martha  Brand,  shaking  her  head. 

"  I  never  set  eyes  on  her,  although  she  was  sick  at  the 
inn  for  upwaids  of  three  weeks.  But  Mrs.  Vine,  the  land- 
lady, she  saw  her  twice ;  and  she  told  me  what  a  pretty 
young  creeter  she  was — and  a  lady,  if  there  ever  was  a  lady 
yet." 

"  Then  the  child  was  born  in  Berkshire — ^how  was  it  ? " 

"  WeU,  your  ladyship,  it  was  an  accident,  seeing  as  how 
the  carriage  broke  down  with  Mr. Vyking  and  the  lady,  a 
driving  furious  to  catch  the  last  London  train.  The  lady 
was  so  much  hurted  that  she  had  to  be  carried  to  the  inn, 
and  went  quite  out  of  her  head,  raving  and  dangerous  like. 
Mr.  Vyking  had  the  landlady  to  wait  upon  her  until  he 


«^ 


'^ 


294 


SIR  AOEVS  HEIR. 


could  telegraph  to  London  for  a  nurse,  which  one  came 
down  next  day  and  took  charge  of  her.  The  baby  wasn't 
two  days  old  when  he  brought  it  to  me  ;  and  the  poor 
young  mother  was  dreadful  low,  and  out  of  her  head  all  the 
time.  Mr.  Vyking  and  the  nurse  were  all  that  saw  her, 
and  the  doctor,  of  course ;  but  she  didn't  die,  as  the  doctor 
thought  she  would,  but  got  well ;  and  before  she  came  right 
to  her  senses,  Mr.  Vyking  paid  the  doctor,  and  told  him 
he  needn't  come  back.  And  then,  a  little  more  than  a 
fortnight  after,  they  took  her  away,  all  sly  and  secret-like 
— and  what  they  told  her  about  her  poor  baby  I  don't 
know.  I  always  thought  there  was  something  dreadful 
wrong  about  the  whole  thing." 

"  And  this  Mr.  Vyking — was  he  the  child's  father — the 
woman's  husband  ? " 

Martha  Brand  looked  sharply  at  the  speaker,  as  if  she 
suspected  she  could  answer  that  question  best. 

"  Nobody  knew,  but  everybody  thought  so.  I've  always 
been  of  opinion,  myself,  that  Guy's  father  and  mother 
were  gentlefolks,  and  I  always  shall  be." 

"  Does  the  boy  know  his  own  story  ?  " 

"  Yes,  your  ladyship-^all  I've  told  you." 

"  Where  is  he  ?    I  should  like  to  see  him." 

Mrs.  Brand's  daughter,  all  this  time  hushing  her  baby, 
started  up. 

"  T'li  fetch  him.     He's  up  stairs  in  Legard's,  I  know." 

She  left  the  room  and  ran  up  stairs.  The  painter, 
Legard,  still  was  touching  up  Miss  Jenkins,  and  the  bright- 
haired  boy  stood  watching  the  progress  of  that  work  of  art. 

"  Guy  !  Guy !  "  she  cried,  breathlessly,  "  come  down 
stairs  at  once.      You're  wanted." 

"Who  wants  me,  Ellen?" 


ch  one  came 
baby  wasn't 
ind  the  poor 
;r  head  all  the 
that  saw  her, 
as  the  doctor 
he  came  right 
md  told  him 
more  than  a 
id  secret-like 
aaby  I  don't 
ling  dreadful 

s  father — the 

ker,  as  if  she 

I've  always 
and  mother 


ng  her  baby, 

d's,  I  know." 
The  painter, 
nd  the  bright- 
it  work  of  art. 
"come  down 


G(/y. 


29s 


"  A  lady,  dressed  in  the  most  elegant  and  expensive 
manner — a  real  lady,  Guy  ;  and  she  has  come  about  that 
advertisement,  and  she  wants  to  see  you." 

"What  is  she  like,  Mrs.  Darking?"  inquired  the  painter 
— "  young  or  old  ? " 

"Young,  I  should  think  ;  but  she  hidesher  face  behind 
a  thick  veil,  as  if  she  didn't  want  to  be  known.  Come, 
Guy." 

She  hurried  the  lad  down  stairs,  and  into  their  little 
room.  The  veiled  lady  still  sat  talking  to  the  old  woman, 
her  back  to  the  dim  daylight,  and  that  disguising  veil  still 
down.  She  turned  slightly  at  their  entrance,  and  looked 
at  the  boy  through  it.  Guy  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  floor, 
his  fearless  blue  eyes  fixed  on  the  hidden  face.  Could  he 
have  seen  it,  he  might  have  started  at  the  grayish  pallor 
which  overspread  it  at  sight  of  him. 

"  So  like  !  So  like  ! "  the  lady  was  murmuring  between 
her  set  teeth.    "  It  is  terrible— it  is  marvellous." 

"  This  is  Guy,  your  ladyship,"  said  Martha  Brand.  "  I've 
done  what  I  could  for  him  the  last  ten  years,  and,  I'm 
almost  as  sorry  to  part  with  him  as  if  he  were  my  own. 
Is  your  ladyship  going  to  take  him  away  with  you  now  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  her  ladyship  sharply,  "  I  have  no  such  in- 
tention. Have  you  no  neighbor  or  friend  who  would  be 
willing  to  take  and  bring  him  up,  if  well  paid  for  the  trouble  ? 
This  time  the  money  will  be  paid  without  fail." 

"T'.iere's  Legard,"  cried  the  boy,  eagerly.  "I'll  go  to 
Legard's,  granny.  I'd  rather  be. with  Joe  than  anywhere 
else." 

"  It's  a  neighbor  that  lives  up  stairs,"  murmured  Martha, 
in  explanation.  "He  always  took  to  Guy,  and  Guy  to 
him,  in  a  way  that's  quite  wonderful.     He's  a  very  decent 


«ip 


2g6 


Sm  AV/iL'S  HEIR. 


man,  your  ladyship— a  painter  for  a  theatre ;  and  Guy 
takes  kindly  to  the  business,  and  would  like  to  be  one 
himself.  If  you  don't  want  to  take  away  the  boy,  you 
couldn't  leave  him  in  better  hands." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it.     Can  I  see  the  man  ? " 

"  I'll  fetch  him,"  cried  Guy,  and  ran  out  of  the  room. 
Two  minutes  later  came  Mr.  Legard,  in  paper  cap  and 
shirt-sleeves,  bowing  very  low  to  the  grand,  black-robed 
lady,  and  only  too  delighted  to  strike  a  bargain.  The  lady 
offered  liberally— Mr.  Legard  closed  with  the  offer  at  once. 

"  You  will  clothe  him  better,  and  you  will  educate  him, 
and  give  him  your  name.  I  wish  him  to  drop  that  of 
Vyking.  The  same  amount  I  give  you  now  will  be  sent 
you  this  time  every  year.  If  you  change  your  residence  in 
the  meantime,  or  wish  to  communicate  with  me  in  any  oc- 
currence of  consequence,  you  can  address  Madam  Ada, 
post-office,  Plymouth." 

She  rose  as  she  spoke,  stately  and  tall,  and  motioned 
Mr.  Legard  to  withdraw.  The  painter  gathered  up  the 
money  she  laid  on  the  U'oie,  and  bowed  himself,  with  a  ra- 
diant face,  out  of  the  room. 

"  As  for  you,"  turning  to  old  Martha,  and  taking  out  of 
her  purse  a  roll  of  crisp,  Bank  of  England  notes,  "  I  think 
this  will  pay  you  for  the  trouble  you  have  had  with  the  boy 
during  the  last  ten  years.  No  thanks — ^you  have  earned 
the  money." 

She  moved  to  the  door,  made  a  slight,  proud  gesture 
with  her  gloved  hand,  in  farewell ;  took  a  last  look  at  the 
golden-haired,  blue-eyed,  handsome  boy,  and  was  gone.  A 
moment  later,  and  her  cab  rattled  out  of  the  murky  street, 
and  the  trio  were  alone  staring  at  one  another,  and  at  the 
bulky  roll  of  notes. 


iiMii^ 


1 


e ;  and  Guy 
ce  to  be  one 
the  boy,  you 

?" 

of  the  room, 
per  cap  and 

black-robed 
ti.  The  lady 
offer  at  once, 
educate  him, 
irop  that  of 

will  be  sent 

residence  in 
le  in  any  oc- 
Madam  Ada, 

id  motioned 
lered  up  the 
elf,  with  a  Ta- 
lking out  of 
:es,  "  I  think 
with  the  boy 
have  earned 

oud  gesture 
:  look  at  the 
was  gone.  A 
lurky  street, 
r,  and  at  the 


!ies 


Gi/y. 


297 


"  I  should  think  it  was  a  dream  only  for  this,"  murmur- 
ed old  Martha,  looking  at  the  roll  with  glistening  eyes. 

•*A  ^. -eat  lady — a  great  lady,  surely.  Guy,  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  that  was  your  mother." 


TT 


Ik 


% 


t 


CHAPTER  VII. 


COLONEL  JOCYIN. 


|IVE  miles  away  from  Thetford  Towers,  where 
the  multitudinous  waves  leaped  and  glistened 
all  day  in  the  sunlight,  as  if  a  glitter  with  dia- 
monds, stood  Jocyln  Hall.  An  imposing  struc- 
ture of  red  brick,  not  yet  one  hundred  years  old,  with  slop- 
ing meadows  spreading  away  into  the  blue  horizon,  and 
densely  wooded  plantations  down  to  the  wide  sea. 

Colonel  Jocyln,  the  lord  of  these  swelling  meadows 
and  miles  of  woodland,  where  the  red  deer  disported  in  the 
green  arcades,  was  absent  in  India,  and  had  been  for  the 
past  nine  years.  They  were  an  old  family,  the  Jocylns, 
as  old  as  any  in  Devon,  with  a  pride  that  bore  no  pro- 
portion to  their  purse,  until  the  present  Jocyln  had,  all  at 
once,  become  a  millionaire.  A  penniless  young  lieuten- 
ant in  a  cavalry  regiment,  quartered  somewhere  in  Ireland, 
with  a  handsome  face  and  dashing  manners,  he  had  capti- 
vated, at  first  sight,  a  wild,  young  Irish  heiress  of  fabulous 
wealth  and  beauty.  It  was  a  love  match  on  her  side — no- 
body knew  exactly  what  it  was  on  his  ;  but  they  made  a 
moonlight  flitting  of  it,  for  the  lady's  friends  were  grievously 
wroth.  Lieutenant  Jocyln  liked  his  profession  for  its  own 
sake,  and  took  his  Irish  bride  to  India,  and  there  an  heir- 
ess and  only  child  was  born  to  him.     The  climate  disagreed 


— V. 


Powers,  where 

and  glistened 
litter  with  dia- 
mposing  struc- 

old,  with  slop- 
e  horizon,  and 
le  sea. 

lling  meadows 
isported  in  the 
i  been  for  the 
^  the  Jocylns, 

bore  no  pro- 
i\n  had,  all  at 
^^oung  lieuten- 
lere  in  Ireland, 

he  had  capti- 
:ss  of  fabulous 

her  side — no- 

they  made  a 
rere  grievously 
on  for  its  own 
there  an  heir- 
nate  disagreed 


COLONEL  JOCVLN. 


299 


with  the  young  wife — she  sickened  and  died ;  but  Ihe 
young  officer  and  his  baby-girl  remained  in  India.  In  the 
ifulness  of  time  he  became  Colonel  Jocyln;  and  one  day  elec- 
trified his  housekeeper  by  a  letter  announcing  his  intention 
of  returning  to  England  with  his  little  daughter  Aileen 
•'  for  good." 

That  same  month  of  December,  which  took  Lady  Thet- 
ford  on  that  mysterious  London  journey,  brought  this  let- 
ter from  Calcutta.  Five  months  after,  when  the  May 
primroses  and  hyacinths  were  all  abloom  in  the  green 
seaside  woodlands,  Colonel  Joclyn  and  his  little  daughter 
came  home. 

Early  on  the  day  succeeding  his  arrival,  Colonel  Jocyln 
rode  though  the  bright  spring  sunshine,  along  the  pleasant 
high  road  between  Jocyln  Hall  and  Thetford  Towers.  He 
had  met  tl.^  late  Sir  Noel  and  his  bride  once  or  twice  pre- 
vious to  his  departure  for  India ;  but  there  had  been  no 
acquaintance  sufficiently  close  to  warrant  this  speedy  call. 

Lady  Thetford,  sitting  alone  in  her  boudoir,  yawning 
tlie  weary  hours  away  over  a  book,  looked  in  surprise  at 
the  card  the  servant  brought  her. 

"  Colonel  Jocyln,"  she  said, "  I  did  not  even  know  he  had 
arrived.  And  to  call  so  soon — ah  I  perhaps  he  fetches  me 
letters  from  India." 

She  rose  at  the  thought,  her  pale  cheeks  flushing  a  lit- 
tle with  expectation.  Mail  after  mail  had  arrived  from 
that  distant  land,  bringing  her  no  letter  from  Captain 
Everard. 

Lady  Thetford  descended  at  once.  She  had  few  caW 
ers ;  but  was  always  exquisitely  dressed,  and  ready  to  re- 
ceive at  a  moment's  notice.  Colonel  Jocyln,  tall  and 
sallow,  and  soldierly,  rose  at  her  entrance. 


'i 


300 


SIR  A'OEi:S  HEIR. 


"  Lady  Thctford  ?  Ah,  yes  I  Most  happy  to  see  your 
ladyship  once  more.  I'ermit  me  to  apologize  for  this  very 
early  call — you  will  overlook  my  haste  when  you  heai  my 
reason." 

Lady  Thetford  held  out  her  white  hand. 

"  Allow  me  to  welcome  you  back  to  England,  Colonel 
Jocyhi.  You  have  come  to  remain  this  time,  I  hope.  And 
little  Aileen  is  well,  I  trust  ?  " 

"  Very  well,  and  very  glad  to  be  released  from  shipboard. 
I  need  not  ask  for  young  Sir  Rupert — I  saw  him  with  his 
nurse  in  the  park  as  I  rode  up.  A  fine  boy,  and  like  you 
my  lady." 

"  Yes,  Rupert  is  like  me.  And  now — how  are  our  mu- 
tual friends  in  India  ?  " 

The  momentous  question  she  had  been  longing  to  ask 
from  the  first,  but  her  well-trained  voice  spoke  it  as  stead- 
ily as  though  it  had  been  ^  question  of  the  weather. 

Colonel  Jocyln's  face  darkened. 

"  I  bring  bad  news  from  India,  my  lady,  Captain  Everard 
was  a  friend  of  yours  > " 

"  Yes ;  he  left  his  little  daughter  in  my  charge." 

"  I  know.     You  have  not  heard  from  him  lately  ? " 

"  No  ;  and  I  have  been  rather  anxious.  Nothing  has 
befallen  the  captain,  I  hope  ?  " 

The  well-trained  voice  shook  a  little  despite  its  admir- 
able training,  and  the  slender  fingers  looped  and  unlooped 
nervously  her  watch-chain, 

"  Yes,  Lady  Thetford,  the  very  worst  that  could  befall 
him.     George  Everard  is  dead." 

There  was  a  blank  pause.  Colonel  Jocyln  looked  grave, 
and  downcast,  and  sad. 

"  He  was  my  friend,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice, "  my  intimate 


to  see  your 
•  for  this  very 
you  heai'  my 


and,  Colonel 
I  hope.  And 

fn  shipboard, 
him  with  his 
and  like  you 

are  our  mu- 

nging  to  ask 
e  it  as  stead- 
:ather. 

tain  Everard 

rge." 
ately  ? " 
>fothing  has 

te  its  admir- 
nd  unlooped 

could  befall 

ooked  grave, 

'my  intimate 


COLONEL  JOCYLN. 


301 


friend  for  many  years — a  fine  fellow,  and  brave  as  a  licin. 
Many,  many  nights  we  have  lain  with  the  stars  of  India 
shining  oa  our  bivouac  whilst  he  talked  to  me  of  you,  of 
England,  of  his  daughter." 

Lady  Thctford  never  spoke,  never  stirred.  She  was 
sitting,  gazing  steadfastly  out  of  the  window  at  the  spark- 
ling sunshine,  and  Colonel  Jocyln  could  not  see  her  face. 

"  He  was  as  glorious  a  soldier  as  ever  I  knew,"  the 
colonel  went  on ;  "  and  he  died  a  soldier's  death — shot 
through  the  heart.  They  buried  him  out  there  with 
military  honors,  and  some  of  his  men  cried  on  his  grave 
like  children." 

There  was  another  blank  pause.  Still  Lady  Thetford 
sat  with  that  fixed  gaze  on  the  brilliant  May  sunshine, 
moveless  as  stone. 

"  It  is  a  sad  thing  for  his  poor  little  girl,"  the  Indian 
officer  said ;  "  she  is  fortunate  in  having  such  a  guardian 
as  you,  Lady  Thetford." 

Lady  Thetford  awoke  with  a  start.  She  had  been 
in  a  trance ;  the  years  had  slipped  backward,  and  she 
had  been  in  her  far-off  girlhood's  home  with  George 
Everard,  her  handsome,  impetuous  lover,  by  her  side.  She 
had  loved  him,  then,  even  when  she  said  no,  and  married 
another ;  she  loved  him  still,  and  now  he  was  dead— dead  I 
But  she  turned  to  her  visitor  with  a  face  that  told  nothing. 

"  I  am  so  sorry — so  very,  very  sorry.  My  poor  little 
May  I  Did  Captain  Everard  speak  of  her,  of  me,  before 
he  died?" 

"  He  died  instantaneously,  Lady  Thetford.  There  was 
no  time." 

"  Ah,  no !  poor  fellow  1  It  is  the  fortune  of  war — ^but  it 
is  very  sad." 


mmi 


302 


S/J!  WEL'S  HEIR. 


II 


i^ 


That  was  all;  we  may  feel  inexpressibly,  but  we  can 
only  utter  commonplaces.  Lady  Thetford  was  very,  very 
pale,  but  her  pallor  told  nothing  of  the  dreary  pain  at  her 
heart, 

"  Would  you  not  like  to  see  little  May  ?  I  will  send  for 
her." 

Little  May  was  sent  for,  and  came.  A  brilliant  little 
fairy  as  ever,  brightly  dressed,  with  shimmering  golden 
curls,  and  starry  eyes.  By  her  side  stood  Sir  Rupert— the 
nine-year-old  baronet,  growing  tall  very  fast,  pale  and  slen- 
der still,  and  looking  at  the  colonel  with  his  mother's  dark, 
deep  eyes. 

Col.  Jocyln  held  out  his  hand  to  the  flaxen-haired  fairy. 

"  Come  here,  little  May,  and  kiss  papa's  friend.  You 
remember  papa,  don't  you  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  May,  sitting  on  his  knee  contentedly.  "  Oh, 
yes.  When  is  papa  coming  home  ?  He  said  in  mamma's 
letter  he  would  fetch  me  lots  and  lots  of  dolls,  and  picture- 
books.    Is  he  coming  home  soon  ? " 

"  Not  very  soon,"  the  colonel  said,  inexpressibly  touched  j 
"  but  little  May  will  go  to  papa  some  day.  You  are 
mamma,  I  suppose  ? "  smiling  at  Lady  Thetford. 

"Yes,"  nodded  May,  "that's  mamma,  and  Rupert's 
mamma.  Ohl  I'm  so  sorry  papa  isn't  coming  home 
soon.  Do  you  know,"  looking  up  in  his  face  with  big, 
shining,  solemn  eyes,  "  I've  got  a  pony,  and  I  can  ride 
lovely ;  and  its  name  is  Snow-drop,  because  it's  all  white  -, 
and  Rupert's  is  black,  and  his  name  is  Sultan  ?  And  I've 
got  a  watch ;  mamma  gave  it  to  me  last  Christmas ;  and 
my  doll's  name— the  big  one,  you  know,  that  opens  its 
eyes  and  says,  '  mamma '  and  *  papa,'  is  Sonora.  Have 
you  got  any  little  girls  at  home  ?  " 


1 


,  but  we  can 
vas  very,  very 
ry  pain  at  her 

:  will  send  for 

brilliant  little 
lering  golden 
Rupert — the 
Dale  and  slen- 
nother's  dark, 

i-haired  fairy, 
friend.    You 

itedly.  "Oh, 
1  in  mamma's 
,  and  picture- 

ibly  touched ; 
ly.  You  are 
9rd. 

ind  Rupert's 
loming  home 
face  with  big, 
d  I  can  ride 
it's  all  white  ; 
I?  And  I've 
ristmas ;  and 
lat  opens  its 
nora.    Have 


COLONEL  JOCYLN. 


303 


"  One,  Miss  Chatterbox." 

"  What's  her  name  ? " 

"  Aileen — Aileen  Jocyln." 

"  Is  she  nice  ? " 

"Very  nice,  I  think." 

"Will  she  come  to  see  me?" 

"  If  you  wish  it,  and  mamm'i  wishes  it." 

"  Oh,  yes !  you  do,  don't  you,  mamma  ?  How  big  is 
your  little  girl — as  big  as  me  ? " 

"  Bigger,  I  fancy.     She  is  nine  years  old." 

"Then  she's  as  big  as  Rupert— he's  nine  years  old. 
May  she  fetch  her  doll  to  see  Sonora  ? " 

"  Certainly — a  regiment  of  dolls,  if  she  wishes." 

"  Can't  she  come  to-morrow  ? "  asked  Rupert,  "  To-mor- 
row's May's  birthday  ;  May's  seven  years  old  to-morrow. 
Mayn't  she  come  ? " 

"That  must  be  as  mamma  says." 

"Oh,  fetch  her,"  cried  Lady  Thetford,  "it  will  be  so 
nice  for  May  and  Rupert.  Only  I  hope  little  May  won't 
quarrel  with  her ;  she  does  quarrel  with  her  playmates  a 
good  deal,  I  am  sorry  to  say." 

"I  won't,  if  she's  nice,"  said  May;  "it's  all  their  fault. 
Oh,  Rupert !  there's  Mrs.  Weymore  on  the  lawn,  and  I 
want  her  to  come  and  see  the  rabbits.  There's  five  little 
rabbits  this  morning,  mamma — mayn't  I  go  and  show 
them  to  Mrs.  Weymore  ? " 

Lady  Thetford  nodded  smiling  acquiescence ;  and  away 
ran  little  May  and  Rupert  to  show  the  rabbits  to  the  gov- 
erness. 

Colonel  Jocyln  lingered  for  half  an  hour  or  upwards,  con- 
versing with  his  hosteca,  and  rose  to  take  his  leave  at  last, 
with  the  promise  of  returning  on  the  morrow  with  his  little 


ft 


304 


SIR  NOEL'S  HEIR. 


daughter,  and  dining  at  the  house.  As  he  mounted  his 
horse  and  rode  homeward,  "  a  haunting  shape,  an  image 
gay,"  followed  him  through  the  genial  May  sunshine- 
Lady  Thetford,  fair,  and  stately,  and  graceful. 

"  Nine  years  a  widow,"  he  mused.  "  They  say  she  took 
her  husband's  death  very  hard— and  no  wonder,  consider- 
ing how  he  died  j  but  nine  years  is  a  tolerable  time  in 
which  to  forget.  She  received  the  news  of  Everard's  death 
very  quietly.  I  don't  suppose  there  ever  was  anything 
really  in  that  old  story.  How  handsome  she  is,  and  how 
graceful.   I  wonder — " 

He  broke  off  in  his  musing  fit  to  light  a  cigar,  .and  see 
through  the  curling  smoke  dark-eyed  Ada,  mamma  to  little 
Aileen  as  well  as  the  other  two.  He  had  never  thought  of 
wanting  a  wife  before,  in  all  the  years  of  his  widowhood  ; 
but  the  want  struck  him  forcibly  now. 

"And  Aileen  wants  a  mother,  and  the  little  baronet  a 
father," he    thought,  complacently;  "my  lady  can't  do 

better."  ^  ,.    ,    . 

So  next  day,  the  earliest  possible  hour  brought  back  the 
galant  colonel,  and  with  him  a  brown-haired,  brown-eyed, 
quiet-looking  little  girl,  as  tall,  every  inch,  as  Sir  Rupert. 
A  little  embryo  patrician,  with  pride  in  her  infantile  lin- 
eaments already,  an  uplifted  poise  of  the  graceful  head,  a 
light,  elastic  step,  and  a  softly-modulated  voice.  A  little 
lady  from  top  to  toe,  who  opened  her  brown  eyes  in  wide 
wonder  at  the  antics,  and  gambols,  and  obstreperou  ness, 
generally,  of  little  May. 

There  were  two  or  three  children  from  the  rectory,  and 
half  a  dozen  from  other  families  in  the  neighborhood— 
and  the  little  birthday  feast  was  under  the  charge  of  Mrs. 
Weymore,  the  governess,  pale  and  pretty,  and  subdued,  as 


CZ3 


TTW 


COLONEL  JOCYLN. 


305 


mounted  his 

e,  an  image 

sunshine — 

}ay  she  took 
er,  consider- 
ible  time  in 
:rard's  death 
as  anything 
:  is,  and  how 

gar,  .and  see 
nma  to  little 
er  thought  of 
widowhood  ; 

tie  baronet  a 
idy  can't  do 

ight  back  the 
,  brown-eyed, 
5  Sir  Rupert. 

infantile  lin- 
iceful  head,  a 
>ice.    A  little 

eyes  in  wide 
xeperou'^ness, 

e  rectory,  and 
ighborhood — 
[large  of  Mrs. 
d  subdued,  as 


of  old.  They  raced  through  the  leafy  arcades  of  the  park 
and  gambolled  in  the  garden,  and  had  tea  in  a  fairy  sum- 
mer-house, to  the  music  of  plashing  fountains — and  little 
May  was  captain  of  the  band.  Even  shy,  still  Aileen 
Jocyln  forgot  her  youthful  dignity,  and  raced  and  laughed 
with  the  best. 

"It  was  so  nice,  papa  I  "  she  cried,  rapturously,  riding 
home  in  the  misty  moonlight.  "  I  never  enjoyed  myself 
so  well.  I  like  Rupert  so  much — ^better  than  May,  you 
know ;  May's  so  rude,  and  laughs  so  loud.  I've  asked 
them  to  come  and  see  me,  papa ;  and  May  said  she  would 
make  her  mamma  let  them  come  next  week.  And  then  I'm 
going  back — I  shall  always  like  to  go  there." 

Colonel  Jocyln  smiled  as  he  listened  to  his  little  daught- 
er's prattle.  Perhaps  he  agreed  with  her ;  perhaps  he  too, 
liked  to  go  there.  The  dinner-party,  at  which  he  and  the 
rector  of  St.  Gosport  and  the  rector's  wife  were  the  only 
guests,  had  been  quite  as  pleasant  as  the  birthday  fete. 
Very  graceful,  very  fair  and  stately,  had  looked  the 
lady  of  the  manor,  presiding  at  her  own  dinner-table. 
How  well  she  would  look  at  the  head  of  his  ? 

The  Indian  officer,  after  that  became  a  very  frequent 
guest  at  Thetford  Towers — the  children  were  such  a  good 
excuse.  Aileen  was  lonely  at  home,  and  Rupert  and  May 
were  always  glad  to  have  her.  So  papa  drove  her  over 
nearly  every  day,  or  else  came  to  fetch  the  other  two  to 
Jocyln  H;.!I.  Lady  Thetford  was  ever  most  gracious, 
and  the  colonel's  hopes  ran  high. 

Summer  waned.  It  was  October,  and  Lady  Thetford 
began  talking  of  leaving  St.  Gosport  for  a  season  \  her 
health  was  not  good,  and  change  of  air  was  recommended. 

"  I  can  leave  my  children  in  charge  of  Mrs.  Weymore," 


^^ 


306 


SIR  NOEL'S  HEIR 


1; 


she  said.  I  have  every  confidence  in  her ;  and  she  has 
been  with  me  so  long.  I  think  I  shall  depart  next  week ; 
Dr.  Gale  says  I  have  delayed  too  long." 

Colonel  Jocyln  looked  up  uneasily.  They  were  silting 
alone  together,  looking  at  the  red  October  sunset  blazing 
itself  out  behind  the  Devon  hills. 

"We  will  miss  you  very  much,"  he  said,  softly.  "I 
will  miss  you." 

Something  in  his  tone  struck  Lady  Thetford.  She  turn- 
ed her  dark  eyes  upon  him  in  surprise  and  sudden  alarm. 
The  look  had  to  be  answered ;  rather  embarrassed,  and 
not  at  all  so  confident  as  he  thought  he  would  have  been. 
Colonel  Jocyln  asked  Lady  Thetford  to  be  his  wife. 

There  was  a  blank  pause.     Then, 

"  I  am  very  sorry.  Colonel  Jocyln.  I  never  thought  of 
this." 

He  looked  at  her,  pale — alarmed. 

"  Does  that  mean  no.  Lady  Thetford  ? " 

"  It  means  no,  Colonel  Jocyln.  I  have  never  thought  of 
you  save  as  a  friend  j  as  a  friend  I  still  wish  to  retain  you. 
I  will  never  marry.  What  I  am  to-day,  I  will  go  to  my 
grave.  My  boy  has  my  whole  heart— there  is  no  room  in 
it  for  anyone  else.  Let  us  be  friends,  Colonel  Jocyln," 
holding  out  her  white,  jeweled  hand,  "more,  no  mortal 
man  can  ever  be  to  me." 


G. 


1 


;  and  she  has 
,rt  next  week ; 

!y  were  sitting 
sunset  blazing 


d,  softly.     "I 

rd.  She  turn- 
sudden  alarm, 
•arrassed,  and 
Id  have  been, 
is  wife. 

\rer  thought  of 


ver  thought  of 
to  retain  you. 
vill  go  to  my 
is  no  room  in 
onel  Jocyln," 
re,  no  mortal 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

LADY  THETFORD'S   BALL. 

EARS  came,  and  years  went,  and  thirteen  pass- 
ed away.    In  all  these  years,  with  their  count- 
less   changes,  Thetford   Towers  had  been  a 
deserted  house.     Comparatively  speaking,  of 
course;    Mrs.   Weymore,  the   governess,  Mrs.  Hilliard, 
the    housekeeper,    Mr.    Jarvis,     the    butler,    and    their 
minor  satellites,  served  there  still,  but  its  mistress  and 
her  youthful  son  had  been  absent     Only  little  May  had 
remained  under  Mrs.  Weymore's  charge  until  within  the 
last  two  years,  and  then  she,  too,  had  gone  to  Paris  to  a 
finishing  school. 

Lady  Thetford  came  herself  to  the  Towers  to  fetch  her 
— the  only  time  in  these  thirteen  years.  She  had  spent 
them  pleasantly  enough,  rambling  about  the  Continent, 
and  in  her  villa  on  the  Arno,  for  her  health  was  frail,  and 
growing  daily  frailer,  and  demanded  a  sunny.  Southern 
climate.  The  little  baronet  had  gone  to  Eton,  thence  to 
Oxford,  passing  his  vacation  abroad  with  his  mamma^ 
and  St.  Gosport  had  seen  nothing  of  them.  Lady  Thetford 
had  thought  it  best,  for  many  reasons,  to  leave  little  May 
quietly  in  England  during  her  wanderings.  She  missed 
the  child,  but  she  had  every  confidence  in  Mrs.  Weymore. 
The  old  aversion  hau  never  entirely  worn  away,  but  time 


'm 


(fcwij^' 


■wp 


■t 


308 


S/H  NOEVS  HEIR. 


had  taught  her  she  could  trust  her  implicitly  j  and  though 
May  might  miss  "mamma"  and  Rupert,  it  was  not  in  that 
flighty-fairy's  nature  to  take  their  absence  very  deeply  to 
heart. 

Jocyln  Hall  was  vacated,  too.  After  that  refusal  of 
Lady  Thetford,  Colonel  Jocyln  had  left  England,  placed  his 
daughter  in  a  school  abroad,  and  made  a  tour  of  the  East. 
Lady  Thetford  he  had  not  met  until  within  the  last  year ; 
then  Lady  Thetford  and  her  son,  spending  the  winter  in 
Rome,  had  encountered  Colonel  and  Miss  Jocyln,  and  they 
had  scarcely  parted  company  since.  The  Thetfords  were 
to  return  early  in  spring  to  take  up  their  abode  once  more 
in  the  old  home,  and  Colonel  Jocyln  announced  his  inten- 
tion of  following  their  example. 

Lady  Thetford  wrote  to  Mrs.  Weymore,  her  viceroy,  and 
to  her  steward,  issuing  her  orders  for  the  expected  return. 
Thetford  Towers  was  to  be  completely  rejuvenated — new 
furnished,  painted,  and  decorated.  Landscape  gardeners 
were  set  at  work  in  the  grounds ;  all  things  were  to  be 
ready  the  following  June. 

Summer  came  and  brought  the  absentees — ^Lady  Thet- 
ford and  her  son.  Colonel  Jocyln  and  his  daughter ;  and 
there  were  bonfires  and  illuminations,  and  feasting  of  ten- 
antry, and  ringing  of  bells,  and  general  jubilation,  that  the 
heir  of  Thetford  Towers  had  come  to  reign  at  last 

The  week  following  the  arrival.  Lady  Thetford  issued 
invitations  over  half  the  county  for  a  grand  ball.  Thet- 
ford Towers,  after  over  twenty  years  of  gloom  and  solitude, 
was  coming  out  again  in  the  old  gayety  and  brilliance 
that  had  been  its  normal  state  before  the  present  heir  was 

born. 
The  night  of  the  ball  came,  and  with  it  nearly  every  one 


Q^ 


1 


LAW  THETFORiyS  BALL. 


309 


ind  though 
not  in  that 
y  deeply  to 

refusal  of 
,  placed  his 
if  the  East. 
;  last  year ; 
i  winter  in 
n,  and  they 
tfords  were 

once  more 
1  his  inten- 

iceroy,  and 
;ted  return, 
lated — new 
gardeners 
were  to  be 

Lady  Thet- 
ghter;  and 
:ing  of  ten- 
}n,  that  the 
last 

Ford  issued 
»all.  Thet- 
id  solitude, 
1  brilliance 
nt  heir  was 

y  every  one 


JL 


who  had  been  honored  with  an  invitation,  all  curious  to 
see  the  future  lord  of  one  of  the  noblest  domains  in  broad 
Devonshire. 

Sir  Rupert  Thetford  stood  by  his  mother's  side,  and  met 
his  old  friends  for  the  first  time  since  his  boyhood — a  slen- 
der young  man,  pale,  and  dark,  and  handsome  of  face, 
with  dreamy,  artist's  eyes  and  quiet  manners,  not  at  all 
like  his  father's  fair-haired,  bright-eyed,  stalwart  Saxon 
race  j  the  Thetford  blood  had  run  out,  he  was  his  own 
mother's  son. 

Lady  Thetford,  grown  pallid  and  wan,  and  wasted  in  all 
those  years,  and  bearing  within  her  the  seeds  of  an  incurable 
disease,  looked  yet  fair  and  gracious,  and  stately  in  her 
trailing  robes  and  jewels,  to-night,  receiving  her  guests 
like  a  queen.  It  was  the  triumph  of  her  life,  the  desire  of 
her  heart,  this  seeing  her  son,  her  idol,  reigning  in  the 
home  of  his  fathers,  ruler  of  the  broad  domain  that  had 
owned  the  Thetford's  lord  for  more  years  back  than  she 
could  count. 

"  If  I  could  but  see  her  his  wife,"  Lady  Thetford  thought, 
*•  I  think  I  should  have  nothing  left  on  earth  to  desire." 

She  glanced  across  the  wide  room,  along  a  vista  of 
lights,  and  flitting  forms,  and  rich  dresses,  and  sparkling 
jewels,  to  where  a  young  lady  stood,  the  centre  of  an  ani- 
mated group — a  tall  and  eminently  handsome  girl,  with  a 
proud  patrician  face,  and  the  courtly  grace  of  a  young 
empress — Aileen  Jocyln,  heiress  of  fabulous  wealth,  pos- 
sessor of  fabulous  beauty,  and  descendant  of  a  race  as 
noble  and  as  ancient  as  his  own. 

"  With  her  for  his  wife,  come  what  might  in  the  future, 
my  Rupert  would  be  safe,"  the  mother  thought ;  "  and 
who  knows  what  a  day  may  bring  forth.    Ah  1  if  I  dared 


Jsi^ 


1 


mm 


310 


S/Ji  NOEL'S  HEIR. 


m 


:i|;    •!, 


[  ;4 


only  speak,  but  I  dare  not ;  it  would  ruin  all.  I  know  my 
son." 

Yes,  Lady  Thetford  knew  her  son,  understood  his  char- 
acter thoroughly,  and  was  a  great  deal  too  wary  a  conspir- 
ator to  let  him  see  her  cards.  Fate,  not  she,  had  thrown 
the  heiress  and  the  baronet  constantly  together  of  late, 
and  Aileen's  own  beauty  and  grace  were  surely  sufficient 
for  the  rest.  It  was  the  one  desire  of  Lady  Thetford's 
heart ;  but  she  never  said  so  to  her  son,  who  loved  her 
dearly,  and  would  have  done  a  great  deal  to  add  to  her 
happiness.  She  left  it  to  fate,  and  leaving  it,  was  doing 
the  wisest  thing  she  could  possibly  do. 

It  seemed  as  if  her  hopes  were  likely  to  be  realized.  Sir 
Rupert  had  an  artist's  and  a  Sybarite's  love  for  all  things 
beautiful,  and  could  appreciate  the  grand  statuesque  style 
of  Miss  Jocyln's  beauty,  even  as  his  mother  could  not 
appreciate  it  She  was  like  the  Pallas  Athene,  she  was 
his  ideal  woman,  fair  and  proud,  uplifted  and  serene,  smil- 
ing on  all,  from  the  heights  of  high-and-mightydom,  but 
shining  upon  them,  a  brilliant  far-off  star,  keeping  her 
warmth  and  her  sweetness  all  for  him.  He  was  an  indo- 
lent, dreamy  Sybarite,  this  pale  young  baronet,  who  liked 
his  rose-leaves  unruffled  under  him,  full  of  artistic  tastes 
and  inspirations,  and  a  great  deal  too  lazy  ever  to  carry 
them  into  effect.  He  was  an  artist,  and  he  had  his  studid 
where  he  began  fifty  gigantic  deeds  at  once  in  the  way  of 
pictures,  and  seldom  finished  one.  Nature  had  intended 
him  for  an  artist,  not  a  country  squire  ;  he  cared  little  for 
riding,  or  hurting,  or  fishing,  or  farming,  any  of  the  things 
wherein  country  squires  delight ;  he  liked  better  to  lie  on 
the  warm  grass,  with  the  summer  wind  stirring  in  the  trees 
over  his  head,  and  smoke  his  Turkish  pipe,  and  dream  the 


!> 


1 


idSi 


y£^ 


LADY  THETFORD'S  BALL. 


3" 


I  know  my 

d  his  char- 
'  a  conspir- 
lad  thrown 
er  of  late, 
y  sufficient 
Thetford's 
loved  her 
add  to  her 
was  doing 

ialized.  Sir 
r  all  things 
esque  style 
could  not 
le,  she  was 
:rene,  smil- 
itydom,  but 
;eping  her 
is  an  indo- 
who  liked 
istic  tastes 
er  to  carry 
I  his  studid 
the  way  of 
d  intended 
ed  little  for 
E  the  things 
er  to  lie  on 
in  the  trees 
I  dream  the 


lazy  hours  away.  If  he  had  been  born  a  poor  man,  he  might 
have  been  a  clever  painter ;  as  it  was,  he  was  only  an  idle, 
listless,  elegant,  languid  dreamer,  and  so  likely  to  remain 
until  the  end  of  the  chapter. 

Lady  Thetford's  ball  was  a  .ery  brilliant  affair,  and  a 
famous  success.  Until  far  into  the  gray  and  dismal  dawn, 
"  flute,  violin,  bassoon,"  woke  sweet  echoes  in  the  once 
gloomy  rooms,  where  so  long  silence  had  reigned.  Half 
the  county  had  been  invited,  and  half  the  county  were 
there;  hosts  of  pretty,  rosy  girls,  in  laces  and  roses, 
and  sparkling  jewelry,  baited  their  dainty  traps,  and 
tried  "becks  and  nods,  and  wreathed  smiles,"  for  the 
special  delectation  of  the  handsome,  courtly  heir  of  Thet- 
ford  Towers. 

But  the  heir  of  Thetford  Towers,  with  gracious  greetings 
for  all,  yet  walked  through  the  rose-strewn  pitfalls  quite  se- 
cure, while  the  starry  face  of  Aileen  Jocyln  shone  on  him 
in  its  pale,  high-bred  beauty.  He  had  not  danced  much  j 
he  had  an  antipathy  to  dancing  as  he  had  to  exertion  of 
any  kind,  and  presently  he  stood  leaning  against  a  slender 
white  column,  watching  her  in  a  state  of  lazy  admiration. 
He  could  see  quite  as  clearly  as  his  mother  how  eminently 
proper  a  marriage  with  the  heiress  of  Col.  Jocyln  would 
be ;  he  knew  by  instinct,  too,  how  much  she  desired  it ; 
and  it  was  easy  enough,  looking  at  her  in  her  girlish  pride 
and  beauty,  to  fancy  himself  very  much  in  love ;  and, 
though  anything  but  a  coxcomb.  Sir  Rupert  Thetford  was 
perfectly  aware  of  his  own  handsome  face  and  dreamy 
artist's  eyes,  and  his  fifteen  thousand  a  year,  and  lengthy 
pedigree,  and  had  a  hazy  idea  that  the  handsome  Aileen 
would  not  say  no  when  he  spoke. 

"  And  I'll  speak  to-night,  by  Jove ! "  thought  the  young 


w 


AM 


imm 


h 


312 


SIR  NOEL'S  HEIR. 


'% 


!     .1 

r 


1' 


:  i 


baronet,  as  near  being  enthusiastic  as  was  in  his  nature, 
while  he  watched  her,  the  brilliant  centre  of  a  brilliant  group. 
"  How  exquisite  she  is  in  her  statuesque  grace,  my  peer- 
less Aileen,  the  ideal  of  my  dreams.  I'll  ask  her  to  be  my 
wife  to-night,  or  that  inconceivable  idiot,  Lord  Gilbert 
Penryhn  will  do  it  to-morrow." 

He  sauntered  over  to  the  group,  not  at  all  insensible  to 
the  quick,  bright  smile  and  flitting  flush  with  which  Miss 
Jocyin  welcomed  him. 

"  I  believe  this  waltz  is  mine.  Miss  Jocyin.  Very  sorry 
to  break  upon  your  Ute^-tite,  Penryhn,  but  necessity  knows 
no  law." 

A  moment  and  they  were  floating  down  the  whirling 
tide  of  the  dance,  with  the  wild,  sweet  waltz  music 
swelling  and  sounding,  and  Miss  Jocyln's  perfumed  hair 
breathing  fragrance  around  him,  the  starry  face  and 
dark,  dewy  eyes,  downcast  a  little,  in  a  happy  tremor.  The 
cold,  still  look  of  fixed  pride  seemed  to  melt  out  of  her 
face,  and  an  exquisite  rosy  light  came-  and  went  in  its 
place,  making  her  more  lovely  than  ever ;  and  Sir  Rupert 
saw  and  understood  it  all,  with  a  little  complacent  thrill 
of  satisfaction. 

They  waltzed  out  of  the  ball-room  into  a  conservatory  of 
exquisite  blossom,  where  tropic  plants  of  gorgeous  hues, 
and  plashing  fountains,  under  the  white  light  of  alabaster 
lamps,  made  a  sort  of  garden  of  Eden.  There  were  orange 
and  myrtle  trees  oppressing  the  warm  air  with  their  sweet- 
ness, and  through  the  open,  French  windows  came  the 
soft,  misty  moonlight,  and  the  saline  wind.  There  they 
stopped,  looking  out  at  the  pale  glory  of  the  night,  and 
there  Sir  Rupert,  about  to  ask  the  supreme  question  of 
his  life,  and  with  his  heart  beginning  to  plunge  against  his 


\lA 


1 


1  his  nature, 
illiant  group, 
ce,  my  peer- 
her  to  be  my 
jord  Gilbert 

insensible  to 
I  which  Miss 

Very  sorry 
essity  knows 

the  whirling 
waltz  music 
rfumed  hair 
y  face  and 
tremor.  The 
t  out  of  her 
went  in  its 
i  Sir  Rupert 
lacent  thrill 

iservatory  of 
■geous  hues, 
of  alabaster 
were  orange 

their  sweet- 
's came  the 

There  they 
e  night,  and 

question  of 
i  against  his 


LADV  THETFORiyS  BALL. 


313 


side,  opened  conversation  with  the  usual  brilliancy  in  such 
cases. 

"  You  look  fatigued.  Miss  Jocyln.  These  great  balls 
are  great  bores  after  all." 

Miss  Jocyln  laughed  frankly.  She  was  of  a  nature  far 
more  impassioned  than  his,  and  she  loved  him ;  and  she 
felt  thrilling  through  every  nerv  j  in  her  body  the  prescience 
of  what  he  was  going  to  say ;  but  for  all  that,  being  a 
woman,  she  hud  the  best  of  it  now. 

"  I  am  not  at  all  fatigued,"  she  said  ;  "  and  I  like  it.  I 
don't  think  balls  are  bores— like  this,  I  mean  ;  but  then, 
certainly,  my  experience  is  very  limited.  How  lovely  the 
night  is  I  Look  at  the  moonlight,  yonder,  on  the  water,  a 
sheet  of  silvery  glory.  Does  it  not  recall  Sorrento,  and 
the  exquisite  Sorrentine  landscape— that  moonlight  on  the 
sea  ?    Are  you  not  inspired,  sir  artist  ? " 

She  lifted  a  flitting,  radiant  glance,  a  luminous  smile, 
and  then  the  star-like  face  drooped  again— and  the  white 
hands  took  to  reckless  breaking  off  sweet  sprays  of  myrtle. 

"  My  inspiration  is  nearer,"  looking  down  at  the  droop- 
ing face.  "  Aileen—  "  and  there  he  stopped,  and  the  sen- 
tence was  never  destined  to  be  finished,  for  a  shadow 
darkened  the  moonlight,  a  figure  flitted  in  like  a 
spirit,  and  stood  before  them— a  fairy  figure,  in  a  cloud  of 
rosy  drapery,  with  shimmering,  golden  curls,  and  dancing 
eyes  of  turquoise  blue. 

Aileen  Jocyln  started  back,  and  away  from  her  compan- 
ion, with  a  faint,  surprise  cry.  Sir  Rupert,  wondering  and 
annoyed,  stood  staring ;  and  still  the  fairy  figure  in  the 
rosy  gauze  stood  like  a  nymph  in  a  stage  tableau,  smiling 
up  in  their  faces,  and  never  speaking.  There  was  a  blank 
pause  of  a  moment,  then  Miss  Jocyln  made  one  step 

14 


^^ 


w 


«i^' 


ft 


iH 


314 


S/X  NOEL'S  HEIR. 


''    r 


fonvard,  doubt,  recognition,  delight,  all  in  her  face  at 
once. 

"  It  is— it  is  I  "  she  cried,  "  May  Everard  I  " 

"  May  Everard  1 "  Sir  Rupert  echoed—"  little  May  !  " 

"  At  your  service,  monsieur.  To  think  you  should  have 
forgotten  me  so  completely  in  a  decade  of  years.  For 
shame.  Sir  Rupert  Thetford  1  " 

And  then  she  was  in  Aileen  Jocyln's  arms,  and  there 
was  an  hiatus  filled  up  with  kisses. 

"  Oh  1  what  a  surprise.  "  Miss  Jocyln  cried,  breathlessly. 
"  Have  you  dropped  from  the  skies  ?  I  thought  you  were 
in  France." 

May  Everard  laughed,  the  mischcvious  laugh  of  thirteen 
years  ago,  as  she  held  up  her  dimpled  cheeks,  first  one 
and  then  the  other,  to  Sir  Rupert. 

"  Did  you  ?    So  I  was,  but  I  ran  away." 

"  Ran  away  I     From  school  ? " 

"  Something  very  like  it.  Oh  1  how  stupid  it  was,  and  I 
couldn't  endure  it  any  longer ;  and  I  am  so  filled  with 
knowledge  now,  that  if  I  held  any  more,  I  should  explode  ; 
and  so  when  vacation  began,  and  I  was  permitted  to 
spend  a  week  with  a  friend  I  just  took  French  leave  and 
came  home  instead.  And  so,"  folding  the  fairy  hands,  and 
nodding  her  little  ringleted  head,  "  here  I  am." 

"  But,  good  heavens  1 "  cried  Sir  Rupert,  aghast,  "  you 
never  mean  to  say,  May,  you  have  come  alone." 

"  All  alone,"  said  May,  with  another  nod.  "  I'm  used 
to  it,  you  know  ;  did  it  last  vacation.  Came  across  and 
spent  it  with  Mrs.  Weymore.  I  don't  mind  it  the  least ; 
don't  know  what  sea-sickness  is ;  and  oh  I  didn't  some  of 
the  poor  wretches  suffer !  Isn't  it  fortunate  I'm  here  for 
the  ball  ?  And,  Rupert,  good  gracious !  how  you've  grown  ! " 


ILi»l 


-f. 


1 


B 


LADV  THETFORD'S  BALL 


315 


"  Thanks.  I  can't  see  that  you  have  changed  much, 
Miss  Everard.  You  are  th::  same  curly-haired,  saucy  fairy 
I  knew  thirteen  years  ago.  What  does  my  lady  say  to 
this  escapade  ? " 

"  Nothing.  Eloquent  silence  best  expresses  her  feelings  ; 
and  then  she  hadn't  time  to  make  a  scene.  Are  you  going 
to  ask  me  to  dance,  Rupert  ?  because,  if  you  are,"  said 
Miss  Everard,  adjusting  her  bracelet,  "you  had  better  do 
it  at  once,  as  I  am  going  back  to  the  ball-room,  and  after 
I  once  appear  there,  you  will  stand  no  chance  amongst 
the  crowd  of  competitors.  But,  then,  perhaps  you  belong 
to  Miss  Jocyln  ? " 

"  Not  at  all,"  Miss  Jocyln  interposed  hastily,  and  red- 
dening a  little, "  I  am  engaged ;  and  it  is  time  I  was  back, 
or  my  unlucky  cavalier  will  be  at  his  wit's  end  to  find  me." 
She  swept  away  with  a  quicker  movement  than  usual, 
and  Sir  Rupert  laughingly  gave  his  piquant  little  partner 
his  arm.  His  notions  of  propriety  were  a  good  deal  shock- 
ed ;  but  then  it  was  only  May  Everard,  and  May  Everard 
was  one  of  those  exceptional  people  who  can  do  pretty 
much  as  they  please,  and  not  surprise  any  one.  They  went 
back  to  the  ball-room,  the  fairy  in  pink  on  the  arm  of  the 
young  baronet,  chattering  like  a  magpie.  Miss  Jocyln's 
partner  found  her  and  led  her  off,  but  Miss  Jocyln  was  very 
silent  and  distrdit  all  the  rest  of  the  night,  and  watched 
furtively,  but  incessantly,  the  fluttering  pink  fairy.  She 
had  reigned  belle  hitherto,  but  sparkling  little  May,  like 
an  embodied  sunbeam,  electrified  the  room,  and  took  the 
crown  and  the  sceptre  by  royal  right.  Sir. Rupert  had 
that  one  dance,  and  no  more — Miss  Everard's  own  proph- 
ecy was  true — the  demand  for  her  was  such  that  even  the 
son  of  the  house  stood  not  the  shadow  of  chance. 


<1V 


■'^ 


I<! 


3J6 


SIX  NOEL'S  HEIR. 


Miss  Jocyln  held  herself  aloof  from  the  young  baronet 
for  the  remaining  hours  of  the  ball.  She  had  known  as 
well  as  he  the  words  that  were  on  his  lips  when  Ma/  Everard 
interposed  j  and  her  eyes  flashed,  and  her  dark  cheeks 
flushed  dusky  red  to  see  how  easily  he  had  been  deterred 
from  his  purpose.  For  him,  he  sought  her  once  or  twice 
in  a  desultory  sort  of  way,  never  observing  that  he  was  pur- 
posely avoided,  wandering  contentedly  back  to  devote  him- 
self to  some  one  else,  and  in  the  pauses  to  watch  May 
Everard  floating — a  sunbeam  in  a  sunny  cloud — ^here  and 
there,  and  everywhere. 


Ui*. 


mmmmm 


ig  baronet 
known  as 
i/  Everard 
irk  cheeks 
n  deterred 
J  or  twice 
16  was  pur- 
levote  him- 
iratch  May 
—here  and 


CHAPTER  IX. 


GUY  LEGARD. 


E  meant  to  have  spoken  that  night ;  he  would 
have  spoken  but  for  May  Everard.  And  yet 
that  is  two  weeks  ago,  and  we  have  been  togeth- 

,„aa=—  er   since,    and" Aileen  Jocyln  broke    off 

abruptly,  and  looked  out  over  the  far  spreading  gray  sea. 

The  morning  was  dull  j  the  leaden  sky  threatening  rain ; 
the  wind  sighing  fitfully,  and  the  slow,  gray  sea  creeping 
up  the  gray  sands.  Aileen  Jocyln  sat  as  she  had  sat  since 
breakfast,  aimless  and  dreary,  by  her  dressing-room  win- 
dow, gazing  blankly  over  the  pale  landscape,  her  hair  fall- 
ing loose  and  damp  over  her  shoulders,  a  novel  lying 
listlessly  in  her  lap.  The  book  had  no  interest-her 
thoughts  would  stray  in  spite  of  her  to  Thetford  Tow- 

crs 

"She  is  very  pretty,"  Miss  Jocyln  thought,  "with  that 
pink  and  white  wax-doll  sort  of  prettiness  that  some  peo- 
ple admire.  I  never  thought  he  could,  with  his  artistic  na- 
ture ;  but  I  suppose  I  was  mistaken.  They  call  her  fasci- 
nating •  I  believe  that  rather  hoydenish  manner  of  hers, 
all  those  dashing  airs,  and  that  'loud'  style  of  dress 
and  doings,  take  some  men  by  storm.  I  presume  I  was 
mistaken  in  Sir  Rupert ;  I  dare  say  pretty,  penmless  May 
will  be  Lady  Thetford  before  long." 


mmm 


318 


S/H  NOEL'S  HEIR. 


Miss  Jocyln's  short  upper-lip  curled  rather  scornfully: 
and  she  rose  up  with  a  little  air  of  petulance,  and  walked 
across  the  room  to  the  opposite  window.     It  commano  -d 
a  view  of  the  lawn  and  a  long  wooded  drive,  and  canter- 
ing airily  cp  under  the  waving  trees,  she  saw  the  young 
lady  of  whom  she  had  been  thinking.     The  pretty  fleet- 
footed  pony  and  his  bright  little  mistress  were  by  no  means 
rare  visitors  at  Jocyln  Hall ;  and  Miss  Jocyln  was  always 
elaborately  civil  to  Miss  Everard.    Very  pretty  little  May 
looked,  all  her  tinselled  curls  floating  in  the  breeze,  like  a 
golden  banner,  the  blue  eyes  more  starily  radiant  than 
ever ;  the  dark  riding-habit  and  jaunty  hat  and  plume  the 
most  becoming  things  in  the  worid.    She  saw  Miss  Jocyln 
at  the  window,  kissed  her  hand,  and  resigned  Arab  to  the 
groom.    A  minute  more,  and  she  was  saluting  Aileen  with 
effusion. 

"  You  solemn  Aileen  I  to  sit  and  mope  here  in  the  house 
instead  of  improving  your  health  and  temper  by  a  breezy 
canter  over  the  downs.  Don't  contradict,  I  know  you  were 
moping.  I  should  be  afraid  to  tell  you  how  many  miles 
Arab  and  I  have  got  over  this  morning.  And  you  never 
came  to  see  me  yesterday,  either.  Why  was  it  ? " 
fuH  ^  didn't  feel  inclined,"  Miss  Jocyln  answered  truth- 

"  No,  you  never  do  feel  inclined  unless  I  come  and  drag 
you  out  by  force;  you  sit  in  the  house  and  grow  yellow 
and  jaundiced  over  high-church  novels.  I  declare  I  never 
met  so  many  lazy  people  in  all  my  life  as  I  have  donesince 
I  came  home.  One  don't  mind  mamma,  poor  thing  1  shut- 
ting herself  up,  and  the  sunshine  and  fresh  air  of  heaven 
out-butforyou  and  Rupert,  and  speaking  of  Rupert,"ran 
on  Miss  Everard,  in  a  breathless  sort  of  way,  "  he  wanted 


ts!h 


1 


GUV  LEGARD. 


319 


to  commence  his  great  picture  of  '  P'air  Rosamond  and 
Eleanor'  yesterday — and  how  could  he  when  Eleanor 
never  came.    Why  didn't  you — you  promised  ?  " 

"  I  c^hanged  my  mind,  I  suppose." 

"  And  broki;  your  word — more  shame  for  you,  then  ! 
Come  now." 

*'  No  J  thanks.     It's  going  to  rain." 

"  Nothing  of  the  sort ;  and  Rupert  is  so  anxious.  He 
would  have  come  himself,  only  my  lady  is  ill  to-day  with 
one  of  her  bad  headaches,  and  asked  him  to  read  her  to 
sleep ;  and  like  the  good  boy  that  he  is  in  the  main, 
though  shockingly  lazy,  he  obeyed.  Do  come,  Aileen, 
there's  a  dear !     Don't  be  selfish." 

Miss  Jocyln  rose  rather  abruptly. 

"  I  have  no  desire  to  be  selfish.  Miss  Everard.  If  you 
will  wait  ten  minutes  while  I  dress,  I  will  accompany  you 
to  Thetford  Towers." 

She  rang  the  bell,  and  swept  from  the  room  stately  and 
uplifted.     May  looked  after  her,  fidgeting  a  little. 

"Dear  mel  I  suppose  she  is  offended  now  at  that 
word  '  selfish.'  I  never  did  get  on  very  well  with  Aileen 
Jocyln,  and  I'm  afraid  I  never  shall.  I  shouldn't  wonder 
if  she  were  jealous." 

Miss  Everard  laughed  a  little  silvery  laugh  all  to  herself, 
and  slapped  her  kid  riding-boot  with  her  pretty  toy 
whip. 

"I  hope  I  didn't  interrupt  a  tender  declaration  that 
night  in  the  conservatory  j  but  it  looked  like  .it  If  I  did 
I  am  sure  Rupert  has  had  fifty  chances  since,  and  I  know  he 
hasn't  availed  himself  of  them,  or  Aileen  would  never  wear 
that  dissatisfied  face.  I  know  she's  in  love  with  him, 
though,  to  be  sure,  she  would  see  me   impaled  with  the 


T 


mL.. 


320 


S/X  JVOEL'S  HEIR. 


greatest  pleasure  if  she  only  thought  I  suspected  it;  but 
I'm  not  so  certain  about  him.  He's  a  great  deal  too  indo- 
lent, in  the  first  place,  to  get  up  a  grand  passion  for  any- 
body; and  I  think  he's  inclined  to  look  graciously  on  me 
—poor  little  me— in  the  second.  You  may  spare  yourself 
the  trouble,  my  dear  Sir  Rupert,  for  a  gentleman  whose  chief 
aim  in  existence  is  to  smoke  Turkish  pipes,  and  lie  on  the 
grr^ss,  and  write  and  read  poetry,  is  not  at  all  the  sort  of 
man  I  mean  to  bless  for  life. 

"  Tell  me  not  of  your  soft  sighing  lovers, 

Such  things  may  be  had  by  the  score ; 
I'd  rather  be  bride  to  a  rover,  * 

And  polish  the  rifle  he  bore." 

Sang  May  Everard,  in  a  gay  little  voice  as  Miss  Jocyln,  in 
a  flowing  riding  habit,  entered  the  room. 

The  two  girls  descended  to  the  court-yard,  mounted,  and 
rode  off.  Both  rode  well  and  both  looked  their  best  on 
horseback,  and  made  a  wonderfully  pretty  picture  as  they 
galloped  through  St.  Gosport  in  dashing  style,  bringing 
the  admiring  population  in  a  rush  to  doors  and  windows. 
Perhaps  Sir  Rupert  Thetford  thought  so,  too,  as  he  stood 
at  the  great  front  entrance  to  receive  them  with  a  kindling 
light  in  his  artist's  eyes. 

"  May  said  she  would  fetch  you,  and  May  always  keeps 
her  word,"  he  said,  as  he  walked  slowly  up  the  sweeping 
staircase ;  "besides,  Aileen,  I  am  to  have  the  first  sitting 
for  the  'Rosamond  and  Eleanor'  to-day,  am  I  not?  May 
calls  me  an  idle  dreamer,  a  useless  drone  in  the  busy  hu- 
man hive ;  so,  to  vindicate  my  character,  and  cleave  a 
niche  in  the  temple  of  fame,  I  am  going  to  immortalize 
myself  over  this  painting." 


'^mL 


'^ 


:ted  it ;  but 
al  too  indo- 
on  for  any- 
jusly  on  me 
are  yourself 
whose  chief 
d  lie  on  the 
the  sort  of 


s  Jocyln,  in 

ountedj  and 
eir  best  on 
ire  as  they 
e,  bringing 
d  windows. 
is  he  stood 
a  kindling 

vays  keeps 
5  sweeping 
first  sitting 
not  ?  May 
e  busy  hu- 
i  cleave  a 
mmortalize 


. 


GUY  LEGARD. 


321 


"  You'll  never  finish  it,"  said  May ;  "  it  will  be  like  all 
the  rest.  You'll  begin  on  a  gigantic  scale  and  with  super- 
humc'n  efforts,  and  you'll  cool  down  and  get  sick  of  it  be- 
fore ii  is  half  finished ;  and  it  will  go  to  swell  the  pile  of 
daubdd  canvas  in  your  studio  now.  Don't  tell  me  I  I 
know  you." 

"  And  have  the  poorest  possible  opinion  of  me,  Miss 
Everard?" 

"  Yes,  I  have  I  I  have  no  patience  when  I  think  of 
what  you  might  do,  what  you  might  become,  and  see  what 
you  are.  If  you  were  not  Sir  Rupert  Thetford,  with  a 
princely  income,  you  might  be  a  clever  man.  As  it  is — " 
a  shrug,  and  a  lift  of  the  eyebrows. 

"  As  it  is  1 "  cried  the  young  baronet,  trying  to  laugh  and 
reddening  violently,  "  I  will  still  be  a  clever  man — a  mod- 
ern Murillo.  Are  you  not  a  little  severe.  Miss  Everard ; 
Aileen,  I  believe  this  is  your  first  visit  to  my  studio  t " 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Jocyln,  coldly  and  briefly.  She  did 
not  like  the  conversation,  and  May  Everard's  familiar 
home-truths  stung  her.  To  her  he  was  everything  mortal 
man  should  be.  She  was  proud,  but  she  was  not  ambitious  ; 
what  right  had  this  penniless  little  free-speaker  to  come 
between  them  and  talk  like  this  ? 

May  was  flitting  about  like  the  fairy  she  was,  her  head  a 
little  on  one  side,  like  a  critical  canary,  her  flowing  skirt 
held  up,  inspecting  the  pictures. 

"•Jeannie  D'Arc  before  her  Judges,'  half  finished,  as 
usual,  and  never  to  be  completed  ;  and  weak — very,  if  it 
ever  is  completed.  '  Battle  of  Bosworth  Field,'  in  flam- 
ing colors,  all  confusion  and  smoke,  and  red  ochre  and 
rubbish,  you  did  well  not  to  trouble  yourself  any  more  with 
that.     '  Swiss  Peasant,'  ah !  that  is  pretty.     '  Storm  at  Sea,' 

14* 


-.*'' 


322 


S/H  NOEVS  HEIR. 


just  tolerable.  'Trial  of  Marie  Antoinette.'  My  dear 
Rupert,  why  will  you  persist  in  these  figure  paintings  when 
you  know  your  forte  is  landscape  ?  '  An  Evening  in  the 
Eternal  City.'  Now  that  is  what  I  call  an  exquisite  little 
thing  ?  Look  at  the  moon,  Aileen,  rising  over  these  hill 
tops  ;  and  see  those  trees— you  can  almost  feel  the  wind 
blow  I  And  that  prostrate  figure— why,  that  looks  like 
yourself,  Rupert  I " 

"  It  is  myself." 

"  And  the  other  stooping— who  is  he  ? " 

"  The  painter  of  that  picture.  Miss  Everard ;  yes,  the 
only  thing  in  my  poor  studio  you  see  fit  to  eulogize,  is  not 
mine.  It  was  done  by  an  artist  friend— an  unknown  Eng- 
lishman, who  saved  my  life  in  Rome  three  years  ago. 
Come  in,  mother  mine,  and  defend  your  son  from  the  two- 
edged  sword  of  May  Everard's  tongue." 

For  Lady  Thetford,  pale  and  languid,  appeared  on  the 
threshold,  wrapped  in  a  shawl. 

"  It's  all  for  his  good,  mamma.  Come  here  and  look  at 
this  •  Evening  in  the  Eternal  City.'  Rupert  has  nothing  like 
it  in  all  his  collection,  though  there  are  the  beginning  of 
many  better  things.     He  saved  your  life  ?    How  was  it  ? " 

"  Oh  !  a  little  affair  with  brigands ;  nothing  very  thrill- 
ing, but  I  should  have  been  killed  or  captured  all  the  same 
if  this  Legard  had  not  come  to  the  rescue.  May  is  right 
about  the  picture;  he  painted  well,  had  come  to  Rome  to 
perfect  himself  in  his  art.  Very  fine  fellow,  Legard— a 
thorough  Bohemian." 

"  Legard  1  " 

It  was  Lady  Thetford  who  had  spoken  sharply  and  sud- 
denly. She  had  put  up  her  glass  to  look  at  the  Italian 
picture,  but  dropped  it,  and  faced  abruptly  round. 


Ofrg^m 


^ 


I.'  My  dear 
intings  when 
:ning  in  the 
cquisite  little 
er  these  hill 
el  the  wind 
t  looks  like 


rd  ;  yes,  the 
ogize,  is  not 
known  Eng- 
years  ago. 
rom  the  two- 

ared  on  the 

and  look  at 
nothing  like 
eginning  of 
3W  was  it  ? " 
;  very  thrill- 
all  the  same 
lay  is  right 
o  Rome  to 

Legard — a 


tly  and  sud- 
the  Italian 
nd. 


GUY  LEGARD. 


323 


"  Yes,  Legard.  Guy  Legard,  a  young  Englishman,  about 
my  own  age.  By-the-by,  if  you  saw  him,  you  would  be  sur- 
prised by  his  singular  resemblance  to  some  of  those  dead 
and  gone  Thetfords  hanging  over  there  in  the  picture-gal- 
lery— fair  hair,  blue  eyes,  and  the  same  peculiar  cast  of 
features  to  a  shade.  I  was  taken  rather  aback,  I  confess, 
when  I  saw  it  first.     My  dear  mother — " 

It  was  not  a  cry  Lady  Thetford  had  uttered — it^  was  a 
kind  of  wordless  sob.  He  soon  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and 
held  her  there,  her  face  the  color  of  death. 

"  Get  a  glass  of  water.  May — she  is  subject  to  these  at- 
tacks.    Quick  I " 

Lady  Thetford  drank  the  water,  and  sunk  back  in  the 
chair  Aileen  wheeled  up,  her  face  looking  awfully  corpse- 
like in  contrast  with  her  dark  garments  and  dead  black  hair. 

"  You  should  not  have  left  your  room,"  said  Sir  Rupert. 
"  after  your  attack  this  morning.  Perhaps  you  had  bet- 
ter return  and  lie  down.     You  look  perfectly  ghastly." 

"  No,"  his  mother  sat  up  as  she  spoke  and  pushed  away 
the  glass,  "there  is  no  necessity  for  lying  down.  Don't 
wear  that  scared  face,  May — it  was  nothing,  I  assure  you. 
Go  on  with  what  you  were  saying,  Rupert." 

"  What  I  was  saying  ?  what  was  it  ? " 

"About  this  young  artist's  resemblance  to  the  Thet- 
fords." 

"  Oh  I  well,  there>  no  more  to  say,  that  is  all.  He 
saved  my  life,  he  painted  that  picture,  and  we  were 
Damon  and  Pythias  over  again  during  my  stay  in  Rome.  I 
always  do  fraternize  with  these  sort  of  fellows,  y8u  know. 
I  leit  him  in  Rome,  and  he  promised,  if  he  ever  returned 
to  England,  which  he  wasn't  so  sure  of,  he  would  run 
down  to  Devonshire  to  see  me  and  my  painted  ancestors, 


Mi 


m 


1 


324 


S//1  NOEVS  HEIR. 


whom  he  resembles  so  strongly.  That  is  all  j  and  now 
young  ladies  if  you  will  take  your  places,  we  will  commence 
the  Rosamond  and  Eleanor.  Mother,  sit  here  by  this 
window,  if  you  want  to  play  propriety,  and  don't  talk." 

But  Lady  Thetford  chose  to  go  to  her  own  room  ;  and 
her  son  gave  her  his  arm  thither,  and  left  her  lying  back 
amongst  her  cushions  in  front  of  the  fire.  It  was  always 
chilly  in  those  great  and  somewhat  gloomy  rooms,  and  her 
ladyship  was  always  cold  of  late.  She  lay  there  looking 
with  gloomy  eyes  into  the  ruddy  blaze,  and  holding  her 
hands  over  her  painfully  beating  heart. 

"  It  is  destiny,  I  suppose,"  she  thought,  bitterly ;  "  let 
me  banish  him  to  the  farthest  end  of  the  earth ;  let  me 
keep  him  in  poverty  and  obscurity  all  his  life,  and  when  the 
day  comes  that  it  is  written,  Guy  Legard  will  be  here.  Soon- 
er or  later,  the  vow  I  have  broken  to  Sir  Noel  Thetford 
must  be  kept;  sooner  or  later,  Sir  Noel's  heir  will  have  his 
own." 


1 


II }  and  now 
ill  commence 
here  by  this 
n't  talk." 

room ;  and 
r  lying  back 

was  always 
>ms,  and  her 
lere  looking 
holding  her 

tterly;  "let 
rth ;  let  me 
nd  when  the 
here.  Sbon- 
•el  Thetford 
vill  have  his 


CHAPTER  X. 


ASKING   IN   MARRIAGE. 


HE  fire  burned  in  Lady  Thetford's  room,  and 
,  among  piles  of  silken  pillows  my  lady,  languid 
and  pale,  lay,  looking  u-Jo  the  leaping  flame.  It 
wasa  warm  summer  moiring,  the  sun  blazed  like 
a  wheel  of  fire  in  a  sky  without  a  clouc ,  but  Lady  Thet- 
ford was  always  chilly  of  late.  She  d'ew  the  crimson 
shawl  she  wore  closer  around  her,  andg'anced  impatiently 
now  and  then  at  the  pretty  toy  clock  on  the  decorated 
chimney-piece.  The  house  was  veiy  still;  its  one  dis- 
turbing element.  Miss  Everard,  was  absent  with  Sir 
Rupert  for  a  morning  canter  over  the  sunny  Devon  hills. 

The  toy  clock  struck  up  a  gay  little  waltz  preparatory  to 
striking  eleven,  and  my  lady  turned  with  a  restless,  impa- 
tient sigh  among  her  pillows. 

"  How  long  they  stay,  and  these  solitary  rides  are  so 
dangerous  I  Oh  !  what  will  become  of  me  if  it  is  too  late, 
after  all !    What  shall  I  do  if  he  says  no  ? " 

There  was  a  quick  man's  step  without — a  moment,  and 
the  door  opened,  and  Sir  Rupert,  "  booted  and  spurred  " 
from  his  ride,  was  bending  over  his  mother.  ' 

"  Louise  says  you  sent  for  me  after  I  left.  What  is  it, 
mother — ^j'ou  are  not  worse  ? " 

He  knelt  beside  her.    Lady  Thetford  put  back  the  fair. 


326 


S/Jt  NOEVS  HEIR. 


brown  hair  with  tender  touch,  and  gazed  in  the  handsome 
face,  so  like  her  own,  with  eyes  full  of  unspeakable  love. 

"  My  boy  1  my  boy  I  "  she  murmured,  "  my  darling  Ru- 
pert !    Oh  I  it  is  hard,  it  is  bitter  to  have  to  leave  you. " 

"  Mother  I  "  with  a  quick  look  of  alarm,  "  what  is  it  ? 
Are  you  worse  ? " 

"  No  worse,  Rupert  j  but  no  better.     My  boy,  I   shall 
never  be  better  again  in  this  world." 
"Mother—" 

"  Hush,  my  Rupert — wait ;  you  know  it  is  true  ;  and 
but  for  leaving  you  I  should  be  glad  to  go.  My  life  has 
not  been  so  happy  since  your  father  died.  Heaven  knows, 
that  I  should  greatly  cling  to  it." 

"  But,  mother,  this  won't  do ;  these  morbid  fancies  are 
worst  of  all.  Keeping  up  one's  spirits  is  half  the  battle." 
"  I  am  not  morbid  ;  I  merely  state  a  fact — a  fact  which 
must  preface  what  is  to  come.  Rupert,  I  know  I  am 
dying,  and  before  we  part  I  want  to  see  my  successor  at 
Thetford  Towers.  " 

"  My  dear  mother  1 "  amazedly. 

"  Rupert,  I  want  to  see  Aileen  Jocyln  your  wife.  No, 
no ;  don't  interrupt  me,  and  believe  me,  I  dislike  match- 
making quite  as  cordially  as  you  do ;  but  my  days  on 
earth  are  numbered,  and  I  must  speak  before  it  is  too  late. 
When  we  were  abroad  I  thought  there  never  would  be  oc- 
casion ;  when  we  returned  home  I  thought  so,  too,  Rupert 
I  have  ceased  to  think  so  since  May  Everard's  return." 

The  young  man's  face  flushed  suddenly  and  hotly,  but 
he  made  no  reply. 

"  How  any  man  in  his  senses  could  possibly  prefer  May 
to  Aileen  is  a  mystery  I  cannot  solve  j  but  then  these 
things  puzzle  the  wisest  of  us  at  times.     Mind,  my  boy,  I 


i 


1 


ASKING  IN  MARRIAGE. 


327 


!  handsome 
ible  love, 
darling  Ru- 
ave  you. " 
vhat  is  it? 

>oy,  I  shall 


true  ;  and 
ly  life  has 
Lven  knows, 

fancies  are 
the  battle." 
fact  which 
now  I  am 
iccessor  at 


wife.  No, 
ike  match- 
ly  days  on 
is  too  late. 
3uld  be  oc- 
jo,  Rupert 
sturn." 
hotly,  but 

prefer  May 
:hen  these 
my  boy,  I 


don't  really  say  you  do  prefer  May — I  should  be  very  un- 
happy if  1  thought  so.  I  know — I  am  certain  you  love 
Aileen  best ;  and  I  am  equally  certain  she  is  a  thousand 
times  better  suited  to  you.  Then,  as  a  man  of  honor,  you 
owe  it  to  her.  You  have  paid  Miss  Jocyln  such  attention 
as  no  honorable  gentleman  should  pay  any  lady,  except  the 
one  he  means  to  make  his  wife." 

Lady  Thetford's  son  rose  abruptly,  and  stood  leaning 
against  the  mantel,  looking  steadfastly  into  the  fire. 

"  Rupert,  tell  me  truly,  if  May  Everard  had  not  come 
here  would  you  not  before  this  have  asked  Aileen  to  be 
your  wife  ? " 

"  Yes — no — I  don't  know.  Mother  I  "  the  young  man 
cried,  impatiently,  "  what  has  May  Everard  done  that  you 
should  treat  her  like  this? " 

"  Nothing ;  I  love  her  dearly,  and  you  know  it.  But 
she  is  not  suited  to  you — she  is  not  the  woman  you  should 
marry." 

Sir  Rupert  laughed — a  hard  strident  laugh. 

"  I  think  Miss  Everard  is  much  of  your  opinion,  my  lady. 
You  might  have  spared  yourself  all  these  fears  and  perplex- 
ities, for  the  simple  reason  that  I  should  have  been  refused 
had  I  asked." 

"  Rupert  1  " 

"  Nay,  mother  mine,  no  need  to  wear  that  frightened 
face.  I  haven't  asked  Miss  Everard  in  so  many  words  to 
marry  me,  and  she  hasn't  declined  with  ^hanks ;  but  she 
would  if  I  did.     I  saw  enough  to-day  for  that." 

"  Then  you  don't  care  for  Aileen  ? "  with  a  look  of  blank 
consternation. 

"  I  care  for  her  very  much,  mother  ;  and  I  haven't  owned 
to  being  absolutely  in  love  with  our  pretty  little  May.  Per- 


I 


328 


S/R  NOEVS  HETR. 


haps  I  care  for  one  as  much  as  the  other  ;  perhaps  I  know 
in  my  inmost  lieart  she  is  the  one  I  should  marry.  That 
is,  if  she  will  marry  me." 

"  You  owe  it  to  her  to  ask  her." 

"Do  I?  Very  likely;  and  it  would  make  you  happy 
my  mother  ? "  ^^^' 

He  came  and  bent  over  her  again,  smiling  down  in  her 
wan,  an.\ious  face. 

''  More  happy  than  anything  else  in  this  world,  Rupert  ?  " 
"  Then  consider  it  an  accomplished  fact.     Before   the 
sun  sets  to-day  Aileen  Jocyln  shall  say  yes  or  no  to  your 
son."  ' 

He  ben^  and  kissed  her  ;  then,  without  waiting  for  her 
to  speak         eled  round  and  strode  out  of  the  apartment. 

"  The.  ithing  like  striking  while  the  iron  is  hot," 

said  the  young  man  to  himself  with  a  grim  sort  of  smile 
as  he  ran  down  stairs ;  «  for  good  or  for  evil,  there  is  no 
time  like  the  present,  my  stately  Aileen." 

Loitering  on  the  lawn,  he  encountered  May  Everard, 
still  in  her  riding-habit,  surrounded  by  three  or  four  poo- 
dle dogs. 

"On  the  wing  again,  Rupert?  Is  it  for  mamma ?  She 
is  not  worse  ? " 

"  No ;  I  am  going  to  Jocyln  Hall.  Perhaps  I  shall 
fetch  Aileen  back." 

May's  turquoise  blue  eyes  were  lifted  with  a  sudden 
lummous,  intelligent  flash  to  his  face. 

"  God  speed  you  I  You  will  certainly  fetch  Aileen  back  1 " 

She  held  out  her  hand  with  a  smile  that  told  him  she 
knew  all  as  plainly  as  he  knew  it  himself. 

"  You  have  my  best  wishes,  Rupert,  and  don't  linger  :  I 
want  to  congratulate  Aileen.  " 


1 


srhaps  I  know 
marry.     That 

I  you  happy, 

down  in  her 

•Id,  Rupert?" 

Before  the 

or  no  to  your 

iting  for  her 
!  apartment, 
iron  is  hot," 
ort  of  smile 
,  there  is  no 

fay  Everard, 
or  four  poo- 

mma  ?    She 

taps  I  shall 

>i  a  sudden 

leen  back  I " 
>ld  him  she 

I't  linger ;  I 


ASKING  IN  MARRIAGE, 


329 


Sir  Rupert's  response  to  these  good  wishes  was  very 
brief  and  curt.  Miss  Everard  watched  liim  mount  and 
ride  off,  with  a  mischievous  little  smile  rippling  round  her 
rosy  lips. 

"  My  lady  has  been  giving  her  idol  of  her  existence  a 
caudle  lecture — subject,  matrimony,"  mused  Miss  Everard, 
sauntering  lazily  along  in  the  midst  of  her  little  dogs ; 
"and  really  it  is  high  time,  if  she  means  to  have  Aileen 
for  a  daughter-in  law ;  for  the  heir  of  T hetford  Towers  is 
rather  doubtful  that  he  is  not  falling  in  love  with  me ; 
and  Aileen  is  dreadfully  jealous  and  disagreeable ;  and 
my  lady  is  anxious,  and  fidgeted  to  death  about  it ;  and 
Sir  Rupert  doesn't  want  to  himself  if  he  can  help  it.  I 
must  be  a  fascinating  little  thing,  to  be  sure,  and  I  feel 
for  hin  ,  beyond  everything ;  at  the  same  time  Beauty," 
said  the  young  lady,  addressing  the  ugliest  of  the  poodles 
with  a  confidential  little  nod,  "  they  might  all  spare  them- 
selves the  trouble  of  being  tormented  on  the  subject ; 
because,  you  see,  my  dear  little  doggy,  I  wouldn't  marry 
Sir  Rupert  Thetford  if  he  were  heir  to  the  throne  of  Eng- 
land, much  less  Thetford  Towers.  He's  a  very  nice  young 
man,  and  a  very  amiable  young  man,  and  a  very  good-look- 
ing young  man,  I  have  no  doubt ;  but  I'm  not  in  love  with 
him,  and  never  shall  be ;  and  I'm  going  to  marry  for  love,  or 
die  an  old  maid.  It  seems  to  me  a  Levantine  pirate,  or  an 
Italian  brigand,  or  a  knight  of  the  road,  would  suit  my 
ideas ;  but  I  suppose  there  is  no  use  hoping  forsuch  fortune 
as  that ;  but  as  for  Sir  Rupert — oh-h-h !  good  gracious  1  " 

Miss  Everard  stopped  with  a  shrill,  feminine  shriek. 
She  had  loitered  down  to  the  gates,  where  a  young  man 
stood  talking  to  the  lodge-keeper,  with  a  big  Newfound- 
land dog  gambolling  ponderously  about  him.    The  big 


330 


SIX  NOEVS  HEIR. 


i>    i 


' 


Newfoundland  made  an  instant  dash  into  Miss  Everard's 
guard  of  honor,  with  one  deep,  bass  bark,  like  distant 
thunder,  and  which  effectually  drowned  the  yelps  of  the 
poodles.  May  flew  to  the  rescue,  seizing  the  Newfound- 
land's collar,  and  pulling  him  back  with  all  the  might  of 
two  little  white  hands. 

"  You  great,  horrid  brute  1 "  cried  May,  with  flashing  eyes, 
"  how  dare  youl  Call-off  your  dog,  sir,  this  instant  I  Don't 
you  see  how  he  is  frightening  mine ! " 

She  turned  imperiously  to  the  Newfoundland's  master, 
the  bright  eyes  flashing,  the  pink  cheeks  aflame— very  prel 
ty,  indeed,  in  her  wrath. 

"  Down,  Hector ! "  called  the  young  man,  authoritatively ; 
and  Hector,  like  the  well-trained  animal  he  was,  subsided  in- 
stantly. "  I  beg  your  pardon,  young  lady !  Hector,  you. 
stir  at  your  peril,  sir!  I  am  very  sorry  he  has  alarmed 
you." 

He  doffed  his  cap  with  careless  grace,  and  made  the 
angry  little  lady  a  courtly  bow. 

"  He  didn't  alarm  me,"  replied  May,  testily ;  "  he  only 
alarmed  my  dogs.     Why,  dear  me !  how  very  odd  I  " 

Miss  Everard,  looking  full  at  the  young  man,  had  start- 
ed back  with  this  exclamation,  and  stared  broadly.  A 
tall,  powerful  looking  young  fellow,  rather  dusty  and  travel- 
stained,  but  eminently  gentlemanly,  with  frank,  blue  eyes, 
and  profuse  fair  hair,  and  a  handsome,  candid  face. 

"  Yes,  Miss  May,"  struck  in  the  lodge-keeper, "  it  is  odd  I 
I  see  it,  too  1  He  looks  enough  like  Sir  Noel,  dead  and 
gone,  to  be  his  own  son  !  " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  May,  becoming  conscious  of 
her  wide  stare,  "but  is  your  name  Legard;  and  are  you 
a  friend  of  Sir  Rupert  Thetford?" 


1 


diss  Everard's 
:,  like  distant 
;  yelps  of  the 
lie  Newfound- 
11  the  might  of 

1  flashing  eyes, 
nstanti  Don't 

land's  master, 
ne — ^very  prel 

uthoritatively ; 

IS,  subsided  in- 

Hector,  you. 

!  has  alarmed 

and  made  the 

tily ;  "  he  only 
ryoddl" 
nan,  had  start- 
i  broadly.  A 
isty  and  travel- 
ink,  blue  eyes, 
lid  face, 
jer,  "it  is  odd  I 
roel,  dead  and 


I  conscious  of 
;  and  are  you 


ASKING  IN  MARRIAGE. 


331 


"  Yes,  to  both  questions,"  with  a  smile  that  May  liked. 
"  You  see  the  resemblance  too,  then.  Sir  Rupert  used  to 
speak  of  it.     Is  he  at  home  ? " 

"  Not  just  now ;  but  he  will  be  very  soon,  and  I  know 
will  be  glad  to  see  Mr.  Legard.  You  had  better  come 
and  wait." 

"  And  Hector,'  said  Mr.  Legard.  "  I  think  I  had  better 
leave  him  behind,  as  I  see  him  eyeing  your  guard  of  honor 
with  anything  but  a  friendly  eye.  I  believe  I  have  the 
pleasure  of  addressing  Miss  Fverard?  Ohl"  laughing 
frankly  at  her  surprised  face,  "  Sir  Rupert  showed  me  a 
photograph  of  yours  as  a  child.  I  have  a  good  memory 
for  faces,  and  knew  you  at  once." 

Miss  Everard  and  Mr,  Legard  fell  easily  into  conversa- 
tion at  once,  as  if  they  had  been  old  friends.  L^dy  Thet- 
ford's  ward  was  one  of  those  people  who  form  their  likes 
and  dislikes  at  first  sight ;  and  Mr.  Legard's  face  would 
have  been  a  pretty  sure  letter  of  recommendation  to  him 
the  wide  world  over.  May  liked  his  looks ;  and  then  he 
was  Sir  Rupert's  friend,  and  she  was  never  particular 
about  social  forms  and  customs  \  and  so  they  dawdled 
about  the  grounds,  and  through  the  leafy  arcades,  in  the 
genial  morning  sunshine,  talking  about  Sir  Rupert  and 
Rome,  and  art  and  artists,  and  the  thousand  and  one 
things  that  turn  up  in  conversation ;  and  the  moments 
slipped  by,  half  hour  followed  half  hour,  until  May  jerked 
out  her  watch  at  last  in  a  sudden  fit  of  recollection,  and 
found,  to  her  consternation,  it  was  past  two. 

"  What  will  mamma  say  I "  cried  the  young  lady,  aghast. 
"  And  Rupert ;  I  dare  say  he's  home  to  luncheon  before 
this.  Let  us  go  back  to  the  house,  Mr.  Legard.  I  had 
no  idea  it  was  half  so  late." 


\ 


■VMM 


• 


Vi 


k 


I      :; 


if 


Sm  NOEVS  HEIR. 

Mr.  Legard  laughed  frankly. 

"The  honesty  of  that  speech  is  the  highest  flattery  my 
conversational  powers  ever  received,  Miss  Everard.  I 
am  very  much  obliged  to  you.  Ah  I  by  Jove  I  Sir  Rupert 
himself." 

For  riding  slowly  up  under  the  sunlit  trees,  came  the 
young  baronet.  As  Mr.  Legard  spoke,  his  glance  fell  upon 
them,  the  young  lady  and  gentleman  advancing  so  con- 
fidentially,  with  half  a  dozen  curly  poodles  frisking  around 
them.  To  say  Sir  Rupert  stared,  would  be  a  mild  way 
of  putting  it— his  eyes  opened  in  wide  wonder. 

"  Guy  Legard  I " 

"  Thetford  I    My  dear  Sir  Rupert  1 " 

The  baronet  leaped  off  his  horse,  his  eyes  lighting,  and 
shook  hands  with  the  artist,  in  a  burst  of  heartiness  very 
rare  with  him.  ' 

"  Where  in  the  world  did  you  drop  from,  and  how  under 
the  sun  do  you  come  to  be  on  such  uncommonly  friendly 
footing  with  Miss  Everard  ? " 

••Heave  the  explanation  to  Mr.  Legard,"  said  May 
blushing  alitde  under  Sir  Rupert's  glance,  "while  I  go 
and  see  mamma,  only  premising  that  luncheon-hour  is  past, 
and  you  had  better  not  linger." 

She  tripped  away,  and  the  two  young  men  followed  more 
slowly  into  the  house.  Sir  Rupert  led  his  friend  to  his 
studio,  and  left  him  to  inspect  the  pictures. 

"Whilst  I  speak  a  word  to  my  motiier,"  he  said;  «  it 
will  detain  me  hardly  an  instant." 

•'  All  ri{ jht !  "  said  Mr.  Legard,  boyishly.  «  Dbn't  hurry 
yourself  on  my  account,  you  know." 

Lady  Thetford  lay  where  her  son  had  left  her ;  lay  as 
if  she  had  hardly  stirred  since.     She  looked  up,  and  half 


^ 


best  flattery  my 
ss  Everard.  I 
ve  I  Sir  Rupert 


trees,  came  the 
fiance  fell  upon 
ancing  so  con- 
frisking  around 
be  a  mild  way 
ler. 


!S  lighting,  and 
heartiness  very 

»nd  how  under 
monly  friendly 

d,"said  May, 
I,  "  while  I  go 
m-hour  is  pas^ 

followed  more 
friend  to  his 

he  said ;  "  it 

"Dbn't  hurry 

her;  lay  as 
i  up,  and  half 


ASKING  IN  MARRIAGE. 


333 


rose  as  he  came  in,  her  eyes  painfully,  intensely  anxious. 
But  his  face,  grave  and  quiet,  told  nothing. 

"  Well,"  she  panted,  her  eyes  glittering. 

"  It  is  well,  mother.  Aileen  Jocyln  has  promised  to  be- 
come my  wife."  ' 

"  Thank  God  1 " 

Lady  Thetford  sunk  back,  her  hands  clasped  tightly 
over  her  heart,  its  loud  beating  plainly  "udible.  Her  son 
looked  down  at  her,  his  face  keeping  its  steady  gravity — 
none  of  the  rapture  of  an  accepted  lover  there. 

"  You  are  content,  mother  ? " 

"  More  than  content,  Rupert.     And  you  ? " 

He  smiled,  and  stooping,  kissed  the  worn,  pallid  face. 
"  I  would  do  a  great  deal  to  make  you  happy,  mother ; 
but  I  would  not  ask  a  woman  I  did  not  love  to  be  my  wife. 
Be  at  rest ;  all  is  well  with  me.  And  now  I  must  leave 
you,  if  you  will  not  go  down  to  luncheon." 

"  I  think  not ;  I  am  not  strong  to-day.  Is  May  waiting? " 

"  More  than  May.  A  friend  of  mine  has  arrived,  and 
will  stay  with  us  for  a  feiy  weeks." 

Lady  Thetford's  face  had  been  flushed  and  eager,  but 
at  the  last  words  it  suddenly  blanched. 

"  A  friend,  Rupert  1    Who  ? " 

"  You  have  heard  me  speak  of  him  before,"  he  said,  care- 
lessly ;  "  his  name  is  Guy  Legard." 


I\ 


ON  THE  WEDDING  EVE. 

!HE  family   at   Thetford  Towers  were  a  good 

deal  surprised,  a  few  hours  later  that  day,  by 

the  unexpected  appearance  of  Lady  Thetford  at 

dinner.    Wan  as  some  spirit  of  the  moonlight, 

she  came  softly  in,  just  as  they  entered  the  dining-room  : 

and  her  son  presented  his  friend,  Mr.  Legard,  at  once 

"  His  resemblance  to  the  family  will  be  the  surest  pass- 
port to  your  favor,  mother  mine,"  Sir  Rupert  said,  gayly. 
Mrs.  Weymore  met  him  just  now,  and  recoiled  with  a 
shriek,  as  though  she  had  seen  a  ghost.      Extraordinary, 
isn  t  It— this  chance  resemblance  ? " 

"Extraordinary,"  Lady  Thetford  said,  "but  not  at  all 
unusual.  Of  course,  Mr.  Legard  is  not  even  remotely 
connected  with  the  Thetford  family  ? " 

She  asked  the  question  without  looking  at  him.  She  kept 
her  eyes  fixed  on  her  plate,  for   that  fair  face  before 
her  was  terrible  to  her  almost  as  a  ghost.      It  was  the 
day«  of  her  youth  over  again,  and  Sir  Noel,  her  husband 
once  more  by  her  side. 

"Not  that  I  am  aware  of,"  Mr.  Legard  said,  running 
his  fingers  through  his  abundant  blonde  hair.     "  But  I  may 
be,  for  all  that.    I  am  like  the  hero  of  a  novel-a  mysteri 
ous  orphan-only,  unfortunately,  with  no  identifying  straw 


1 


s  were  a  good 
T  that  day,  by 
dy  Thetford  at 
the  moonh'ght, 
:  dining-room  ; 
d,  at  once, 
le  surest  pass- 
rt   said,  gayly. 
jcoiled  with  a 
Extraordinary, 

but  not  at  all 
!ven  remotely 

liim.  She  kept 

r  face  before 

It  was  the 

her  husband, 

said,  running 
"  But  I  may 
il — a  mysteri 
tifying  straw 


ON  THE  WEDDING  EVE. 


335 


berry-mark  on  my  arm.     Who  my  parents  were,  or"  what 
my  real  name  is,  I  know  no  more  than  I  do  of  the  biog 
raphy  of  the  man  in  the  moon." 

There  was  a  murmur  of  astonishment — May  and  Ru- 
pert vividly  interested,  Lady  Thetford  white  as  a  dead 
woman,  her  eyes  averted,  her  hand  trembling  as  if 
palsied. 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Legard,  gravely,  and  a  little  sadly,  "  I 
stand  as  totally  alone  in  this  world  as  a  human  being  can 
stand— father,  mother,  brother,  sister,  I  never  have  known ; 
a  nameless  penniless  waif,  I  was  cast  upon  the  world  four- 
and-twenty  years  ago.  Until  the  age  of  twelve  I  was  call- 
ed Guy  Vyking ;  then  the  friends  with  whom  I  had  lived  left 
England  for  America,  and  a  man,  a  painter,  named  Legard, 
took  me,  and  gave  me  his  name.  And  there  the  romance 
comes  in ;  a  lady,  a  tall,  elegant  lady,  too  closely  veiled 
for  us  to  see  her  face,  came  to  the  poor  home  that  was 
mine,  paid  those  who  kept  me  from  my  infancy,  and  paid 
Legard  for  his  future  care  of  me.  I  have  never  seen  her 
since ;  and  I  sometimes  think,"  his  voice  failing,  "  that 
she  may  have  been  my  mother." 

There  was  a  sudden  clash,  and  a  momentary  confusion. 
My  lady,  lifting  her  glass  with  that  shaking  hand,  had  let 
it  fall,  and  it  was  shivered  to  atoms  on  the  floor. 
"  And  you  never  saw  the  lady  after  ? "  May  asked. 
"  Never.  Legard  received  regular  remittances,  mailed, 
oddly  enough,  from  your  town  here— Plymouth.  The  lady 
told  him,  if  he  ever  had  occasion  to  address  her,  which  he 
never  did  have,  that  I  know  of,  to  address  Madam  Ada, 
Plymouth  !  He  brought  me  up,  educated  me,  taught  me 
his  art,  and  died.  I  was  old  enough  then  to  comprehend  my 
position ;  and  the  first  use  I  made  of  that  knowledge,  was 


1 


I 


i- 


>fti  I  n'ii«t  I, 


336 


SIR  NOEL'S  HEIR. 


'\\  4 


:.      i 


to  return  '  Madam  Ada '  her  remittances,  with  a  few  sharp 
lines,  that  effectually  put  an  end  to  them." 

"  Have  you  ever  tried  to  ferret  out  the  mystery  of  your 
birth,  and  this  Madam  Ada  ?  "  inquired  Sir  Rupert. 

Mr.  Legard  shook  his  head. 

"  No,  why  should  I  ?  I  dare  say  I  should  have  no  rea- 
son to  be  proud  of  my  parents  if  I  did  find  them ;  and 
they  evidently  were  not  very  proud  of  me.  '  Where  ignor- 
ance is  bliss,'  etc.  If  destiny  has  decreed  it,  I  shall  know, 
sooner  or  later ;  if  destiny  has  not,  then  my  puny  efforts 
will  be  of  no  avail.  But  if  presentiments  mean  anything,  I 
shall  one  day  know ;  and  I  have  no  doubt,  if  I  searched 
Devonshire,  I  should  find  Madam  Ada." 

May  Everard  started  up  with  a  cry,  for  Lady  Thetford 
had  fallen  back  in  one  of  those  sudden  spasms  to  which 
she  had  lately  become  subject.  In  the  universal  conster- 
nation, Guy  Legard  and  his  story  were  forgotten. 

"  I  hope  what  /  said  had  nothing  to  do  with  this,"  he 
cried  aghast ;  and  the  one  following  so  suddenly  upon  the 
other  made  the  remark  natural  enough.  But  Sir  Rupert 
turned  upon  him  in  haughty  surprise. 

"  What  you  said  1  My  mother,  unfortunately,  has 
been  subject  to  these  attacks  for  the  past  two  years,  Mr. 
Legard.  That  will  do,  May ;  let  me  assist  my  mother  to 
her  room." 

May  drew  back.  Lady  Thetford  was  able  to  rise, 
pallid  and  trembling,  and,  supported  by  her  son's  arm, 
to  walk  from  the  room. 

"  Lady  Thetford's  health  is  very  delicate,  I  fear,"  Mr. 
Legard  murmured,  sjmpathetically.  "  I  really  thought  for 
a  moment  my  story-telling  had  occasioned  her  sudden 
illness." 


nan 


!th  a  few  sharp 

nystery  of  your 
Rupert. 

1  have  no  rea- 
ind  them ;  and 

'  Where  ignor- 
t,  I  shall  know, 
ly  puny  efforts 
lean  anything,  I 

if  I  searched 

Lady  Thetford 

pasms  to  which 

Iversal  conster- 

otten. 

0  with  this,"  he 

denly  upon  the 

But  Sir  Rupert 

jrtunately,  has 
:  two  years,  Mr. 
:  my  mother  to 

able  to  rise, 
her  son's  arm, 

te,  I  fear,"  Mr. 
sally  thought  for 
:d  her  sudden 


OJV  THE  WEDDING  EVE. 


337 


Miss  Everard  fixed  a  pair  of  big,  shining  eyes  in  solemn 
scrutiny  on  his  face— that  face  so  like  the  pictured  one  of 
Sir  Noel  Thetford. 

"A  very  natural  supposition,"  thought  the  young  lady  ; 
"  so  did  /." 

"  You  never  knew  Sir  Noel  ? "  Guy  Legard  said,  mus- 
ingly ;  but,  of  course,  you  did  not.  Sir  Rupert  has  told  me 
he  died  before  he  was  born." 

"  I  never  saw  him,"  said  May ;  "but  those  who  have  seen 
him  in  this  house,  our  housekeeper,  for  instance,  stands 
perfectly  petrified  at  your  extraordinary  likeness  to  him. 
Mrs.  Milliard  says  you  have  given  her  a  '  turn '  she  never 
expects  to  get  over." 

Mr.  Legard  smiled,  but  was  very  grave  again  directly. 

"  It  is  odd — odd — very  odd ! " 

"  Yes,"  said  May  Everard,  with  a  sagacious  nod  j  "  a  great 
deal,  too,  to  be  a  chance  resemblance.  Hush  1  here  comes 
Rupert.     Well,  how  have  you  left  mamma? " 

"  Better ;  Louise  is  with  her.  And  now  to  finish  dinner  j 
I  have  an  engagement  for  the  evening." 

Sir  Rupert  was  strangely  silent  and  distrait  z!i\  through 
dinner,  a  darkly  thoughtful  shadow  glooming  his  ever  pale 
face.  A  supposition  had  flashed  across  his  mind  that 
turned  him  hot  and  cold  by  turns — a  supposition  that  was 
almost  a  certainty.  This  striking  resemblance  of  the  paint- 
er, Legard,  to  his  dead  father  was  no  freak  of  nature,  but 
a  retributive  Providence  revealing  the  truth  of  his  birth. 
It  came  back  to  his  memory  with  painfully  acute  clearness, 
that  his  mother  had  sunk  down  once  before  in  a  violent 
tremor  and  faintness  at  the  mere  sound  of  his  name.  Le- 
gard had  spoken  of  a  veiled  lady— Madam  Ada,  Plymouth, 
her  address.    Could  his  mother— his— be  that  mysterious 


I 


SIR  NOEVS  HEIR. 

arbiter  of  Legard's  fate  ?  The  name — the  place.  Sir  Rupert 
Thetford  wrenched  his  thoughts  by  a  violent  effort  away, 
shocked  and  horrified  at  himself. 

"  It  cannot  be — it  cannot  ? "  he  said  to  himself  passion- 
ately ;  "  I  am  mad  to  harbor  such  thoughts.  It  is  a  des- 
ecration of  the  memory  of  the  dead,  a  treason  to  the  living. 
But  I  wish  Guy  Legard  had  never  come  here." 

There  was  one  other  person  at  Thetford  Towers  strange- 
ly and  strongly  effected  by  Mr.  Guy  Legard ;  and  that 
person,  oddly  enough,  was  Mrs.  Weymore,  the  governess. 
Mrs.  Weymore  had  never  even  seen  the  late  Sir  Noel  that 
any  one  knew  of,  and  yet  she  had  recoiled  with  a  shrill, 
feminine  cry  of  utter  consternation  at  sight  of  the  young 
man. 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  should  get  the  fidgets  about  it, 
Mrs.  Weymore,"  Miss  Everard  remarked,  with  her  great, 
bright  eyes  suspiciously  keen,  "  you  never  knew  Sir  Noel." 

Mrs.  Weymore  sunk  down  on  a  lounge  quite  white  and 
startled. 

"  My  dear,  I  beg  your  pardon.  I — it  seems  strange. 
O  May  1 "  with  a  sudden  sharp  cry,  losing  self-control, 
"  who  is  that  young  man  ? " 

"Why,  Mr.  Guy  Legard,  artist,"  answered  May,  com- 
posedly, the  bright  eyes  still  on  the  alert ;  "  formerly  in 
'boyhood's  sunny  hours,'  you  know.  Master  Guy — let  me 
see !    Yes,  Vyking." 

"  Vyking  I  "  repeated  Mrs.  Weymore  with  a  spasmodic 
cry ;  and  then  dropped  her  white  face  in  her  hands,  trem- 
bling from  head  to  foot 

"We)',  upon  my  word,"  Miss  Everard  said,  addressing 
empty  space,  "  this  does  cap  the  globe  !  The  Mysteries  of 
Udolpho  were  plain  reading  compared  to  Mr.  Guy  Vyking, 


1 


:e.  Sir  Rupert 
it  effort  away, 

mself  passion- 

}.     It  is  a  des- 

)n  to  the  living. 

e." 

'owers  strange- 

ard  ;  and  that 

the  governess. 

Sir  Noel  that 
d  with  a  shrill, 

of  the  young 

Igets  about  it, 
irith  her  great, 
new  Sir  Noel." 
lite  white  and 

seems  strange, 
g  self-control, 

ed  May,  com- 
;  "  formerly  in 
r  Guy — let  me 

li  a  spasmodic 
T  hands,  trem- 

id,  addressing 
,e  Mysteries  of 
:  Guy  Vyking, 


ON  THE  WEDDING  EVE. 


339 


and  the  effect  he  produces  on  people.  He's  a  very  hand- 
some young  man,  and  a  very  agreeable  young  man ;  but 
I  should  never  have  suspected  he  possessed  the  power  of 
throwing  all  the  elderly  ladies  he  meets  into  gasping  fits. 
There's  Lady  Thetford,  he  was  too  much  for  her,  and  she 
had  to  be  helped  out  of  the  dining-room  ;  and  here's  Mrs. 
Weymore  going  into  hysterics  because  he  used  to  be  called 
Guy  Vyking.  I  thought  my  lady  might  be  the  veiled  lady 
of  his  story;  but  now  I  think  it  must  have  been  Mrs. 
Weymore." 

Mrs.  Weymore  looked  up,  her  very  lips  white  as  ashes. 

"  The  veiled  lady  ?  What  lady  ?  May,  tell  me  all  you 
know  of  Mr.  Vyking." 

"  Not  Vyking  now  —  Legard,"  answered  May ;  and 
thereupon  the  young  lady  detailed  the  scanty  risumk  the 
artist  had  given  them  of  his  history. 

"  And  I'm  very  sure  it  isn't  chance  at  all,"  concluded 
May  Everard,  transfixing  the  governess  with  an  unwinking 
stare ;  "  and  Mr.  Legard  is  as  much  a  Thetford  as  Sir 
Rupert  himself.  I  don't  pretend  to  divination,  of  course, 
and  I  don't  clearly  see  how  it  is ;  but  it  is,  Mrs.  Weymore ; 
and  you  could  enlighten  the  young  man,  and  so  could  my 
lady,  if  either  of  you  chose." 

Mrs.  Weymore  turned  suddenly  and  caught  May's  two 
hands  in  hers. 

"  May,  if  you  care  for  me,  if  you  have  any  pity,  don't 
speak  of  this,  I  do  know — but  I  must  have  time.  My  head 
is  in  a  whirl.    Wait,  wait,  and  don't  tell  Mr.  Legard." 

"I  won't,"  said  May;  "but  it's  all  very  strange  and 
very  mysterious,  delightfully  like  a  three-volume  novel,  or 
a  sensation  play.  I'm  getting  very  much  interested  in  the 
hero  of  the  performance ;  and  I'm  afraid  I  shall  be  deplor- 


M^rw 


I    r 


'J  r 


S/Ji  NOEVS  HEIR. 


ably  in  love  with  him  shortly,  if  tlii-  sort  of  thing  keeps 


Mr.  Legard,  himself,  took  the  matter  much  more  coolly 
than  any  one  else ;  smoked  cigars  philosophically ;  criti- 
cised Sir  Rupert's  pictures — did  a  little  that  way  himself ; 
played  billiards  with  his  host ;  and  chess  with  Miss  Everard, 
rode  with  that  young  lady,  walked  with  her,  sang  duetts 
with  her,  in  a  deep  melodious  bass ;  made  himself  fascina- 
ting, and  took  the  world  easy. 

"  It  is  no  use  getting  into  a  gale  about  these  things,"  he 
said  to  Miss  Everard,  when  she  wondered  aloud  at  his 
constitutional  phlegm ;  "  the  crooked  things  will  straighten 
of  themselves  if  we  give  them  time.  What  is  written  is 
written.  J  know  that  I  shall  find  out  all  about  myself  one 
day — like  little  Paul  Dombey,  '  I  feel  it  in  my  bones.* " 

Mr.  Legard  was  thrown  a  good  deal  upon  Miss  Everard's 
resources  for  amusement ;  for,  of  course.  Sir  Rupert's  time 
was  chiefly  spent  ?it  Jocyln  Hall,  and  Mr  Legard  bore  this 
with  even  greater  serenity  than  the  other.  Miss  Everard 
was  a  very  charming  little  girl,  with  a  laugh  that  was 
sweeter  than  the  music  of  the  spheres,  and  hundreds  of  be- 
witching little  ways ;  and  Mr.  Legard  undertook  to  paint 
her  portrait,  and  found  it  the  most  absorbing  work  of  art 
he  had  ever  undertaken.  As  for  the  young  baronet, 
spending  his  time  at  Jocyln  Hall,  they  never  missed  him, 
His  wooing  sped  on  smoothest  wings — Colonel  Jocyln  al 
most  as  much  pleased  as  my  lady  herself ;  and  the  course  of 
true  love  in  this  case  ran  as  smooth  as  heart  could  wish. 

Miss  Jocyln,  as  a  matter  or  course,  was  a  great  deal  at 
Thetford  Towers,  and  saw  with  evident  gratification  the 
growing  intimacy  of  Mr.  Legard  and  May.  It  would  be  an 
eminently  suitable  match,  Miss  Jocyln  thought,  only  it  was 


'tmitmmmtmmmmmmiiim 


spi 


}f  thing  keeps 

:h  more  coolly 
phically;  criti- 
:  way  himself; 
Miss  Everard, 
iT,  sang  duetts 
imself  fascina- 

ese  things,"  he 
1  aloud  at  his 
will  straighten 
It  is  written  is 
3ut  myself  one 
ly  bones.* " 
Miss  Everard's 
•  Rupert's  time 
sgard  bore  this 
Miss  Everard 
Lugh  that  was 
undreds  of  be- 
rtook  to  paint 
g  work  of  art 
)ung  baronet. 
r  missed  him, 
jnel  Jocyln  al 
d  the  course  of 
could  wish. 
I  great  deal  at 
atiiication  the 
[t  would  be  an 
ht,  only  it  was 


"•mR" 


ON  THE  WEDDING  EVE. 


341 


a  pity  so  much  mystery  shrouded  the  gentleman's  birth. 
Still  he  was  a  gentleman,  and  with  his  talents,  no  doubt, 
would  become  an  eminent  artist ;  and  it  would  be  highly 
satisfactory  to  see  May  fix  her  erratic  affections  on  some- 
body and  thus  be  doubly  out  of  her  (Miss  Jocyln's)  way. 

The  wedding  preparations  were  going  briskly  forward. 
There  was  no  need  of  delay,  all  were  anxious  for  the  mar- 
riage—Lady Thetford  more  than  anxious,  on  account  of 
her  declining  health.  The  hurry  to  have  the  ceremony 
irrevocably  over  had  grown  to  be  something  very  like 
monomania  with  her. 

"  I  feel  that  my  days  are  numbered,"  she  said,  with  fever- 
ish  impatience,  to  her  son, "  and  I  cannot  rest  in  my  grave, 
Rupert,  until  I  see  Aileen  your  wife." 

So  Sir  Rupert,  more  than  anxious  to  please  his  mother, 
hastened  on  the  wedding.  An  eminent  physician,  summon- 
ed down  from  London,  confirmed  my  lady's  own  fears. 

"  Her  life  hangs  by  a  thread,"  this  gentleman  said,  con- 
fidentially, to  Sir  Rupert  j  "  the  slightest  excitement  may 
snap  it  at  any  moment.  Don't  contradict  her— let  every- 
thing be  as  she  wishes.  Nothing  can  save  her,  but 
perfect  quiet  and  repose  may  prolong  her  existence." 

The  last  week  of  September  the  wedding  was  to  take 
place  ;  and  all  was  bustle  and  haste  at  Jocyln  Hall.  Mr. 
Legard  was  to  stay  for  the  wedding,  at  the  express  desire 
of  Lady  Thetford  herself.  She  had  seen  him  but  very 
rarely  since  that  first  day  ;  illness  had  compelled  her  to 
keep  her  room ;  but  her  interest  in  him  was  unabated, 
and  she  had  sent  for  him  to  her  apartment,  and  invited  him 
to  remain.  And  Mr.  Legard,  a  good  deal  surprised,  and 
a  little  flattered,  consented  at  once.  ^^ 

"  Very  kind  of  Lady  Thetford,  you  know.  Miss  Everard, 


i'-^^ 


t      I 


SIR  NOEL'S  HEIR. 

Mr.  Legard  said,  sauntering  into  the  room  where  she  sat 
with  her  ex-governess— Mr.  Legard  and  Miss  Everard 
were  growing  highly  confidential  of  late — "  to  take  such  an 
interest  iu  an  utter  stranger  as  she  does  in  me." 

May  stole  a  glance  from  under  her  eyelashes  at  Mrs, 
Weymore  j  that  lady  sat  nervous  and  scared-looking,  and 
altogether  uncomfortable,  as  she  had  a  habit  of  doing  in 
the  young  artist's  presence. 

"  Very,"  Miss  Everard  said,  dryly.  "  You  ought  to  feel 
highly  complimented,  Mr.  Legard,  for  it's  a  sort  of  kind- 
ness her  ladyship  is  extremely  chary  of  to  utter  strangers. 
Rather  odd,  isn't  it,  Mrs.  Weymore?  " 

Mrs.  Weymore's  reply  was  a  distressed,  beseeching  look. 
Mr.  Legard  saw  it,  and  opened  very  wide  his  handsome, 
Saxon  eyes. 

"  Eh  ? "  he  said,  "  it  doesn't  mean  anything  does  it  ?  Mrs. 
Weymore  looks  mysterious,  and  I'm  so  stupid  about  these 
things.  Lady  Thetford  doesn't  know  anything  about  me, 
does  she  ?  " 

"  Not  that  /  know  of,"  May  said,  with  significant  em- 
phasis on  the  personal  pronoun. 

"  Then  Mrs.  Weymore  does  I  By  Jove  I  I  always 
thought  Mrs.  Weymore  had  an  odd  way  of  looking  at  me  I 
And  now,  what  is  it  ?  " 

He  turned  his  fair,  resolute  face  to  that  lady  with  a 
smile  hard  to  resist. 

"  I  don't  make  much  of  a  howling  about  my  affairs,  you 
know,  Mrs  Weymore,"  he  said ;  "  but,  for  all  that,  I  am 
none  the  less  interested  in  myself  and  history.  If  you  can 
open  the  mysteries  a  little  you  will  be  conferring  a  favor 
on  me  I  can  never  repay.  And  I  am  positive  from  your 
looks  you  can." 


"^•M 


ON  THE   WEDDING  EVE. 


343 


rhere  she  sat 
uliss  Everard 
>  take  such  an 

shes  at  Mrs. 
[-looking,  and 
it  of  doing  in 

ought  to  feel 
sort  of  kind- 
er strangers. 

eeching  look, 
s  handsome, 

loes  it  ?  Mrs. 
1  about  these 
ig  about  me, 

piificant  em- 

!  I  always 
>king  at  me  I 

lady  with  a 

'  affairs,  you 
1  that,  I  am 
If  you  can 
ring  a  favor 
;  from  your 


Mrs.  Weymore  turned  away,  and  covered  her  face,  with 
a  sort  of  sob.  The  young  lady  and  gentleman  exchanged 
startled  glances. 

"  You  can  then  ? "  Mr.  Lcgard  said,  gravely,  but  growing 
very  pale.     "  You  know  who  I  am  ? " 

To  his  boundless  consternation  Mrs.  Weymore  rose  up, 
seizing  his  hands  and  covering  them  with  kisses. 

"  I  do  I  I  do  I  I  know  who  you  arc,  and  so  shall  you 
before  this  wedding  takes  place.  But  before  I  tell  you  I 
must  speak  to  Lady  Thetford." 

Mr.Legard  withdrew  his  hands,  his  face  as  colorless  as 

her  own. 

"  To  Lady  Thetford  1    What  has  Lady  Thetford  to  do 

with  me?" 

"  Everything  1     She  knows  who  you  are  as  well  as  I  do. 

I  must  speak  to  her  first." 

"  Answer  me  one  thing— is  my  name  Vyking  ? " 

"  No.  Pray,  pray  don't  ask  me  any  more  questions. 
As  soon  as  her  ladyship  is  a  little  stronger,  I  will  go  to 
her  and  obtain  her  permission  to  speak.  Keep  what  I 
have  said  a  secret  from  Sir  Rupert,  and  wait  until  then." 

She  turned  to  go,  so  haggard  and  wild-looking,  that 
neither  strove  to  detain  her.  The  young  man  stared 
blankly  after  her  as  she  left  the  room. 

"  At  last  1 "  he  said,  drawing  a  deep  breath,  "  at  last  I 

shall  know  1 " 

There  was  a  pause  ;  then  May  spoke  in  a  fluttering  lit- 
tle voice. 

"  How  very  strange  that  Mrs.  Weymore  sho  Id  know, 

of  all  persons  in  the  world  1 " 

"  Who  is  Mrs.  Weymore  ?  How  long  has  she  been  here  ? 
Tell  me  all  you  know  of  her.  Miss  Everard." 


344 


S/H  NOELS  HEIR. 


"  And  that  'all '  will  be  almost  nothing.  She  came  down 
from  London  as  nursery-governess  to  Rupert  and  me,  a 
week  or  two  after  my  arrival  here,  selected  by  the  rector 
of  St.  Gosport.  She  was  then  what  you  see  her  now,  a 
pale,  subdued  creature  ia  widow  weeds,  with  the  look  of 
one  who  had  seen  trouble.  I  have  known  her  so  long, 
and  always  as  such  a  white,  still  shadow,  I  suppose  that  is 
why  it  seems  so  odd." 

Mrs.  Weymore  kept  altogether  out  of  Mr.  Legard's  way 
for  the  next  week  or  two.  She  avoided  May  also,  as  much 
as  possible,  and  shrunk  so  palpably  from  any  allusion  to 
the  past  scene,  that  May  good-naturedly  bided  her  time  in 
silence,  though  almost  as  impatient  as  Mr.  Legard  him- 
self. 

And  whilst  they  waited  the  bridal-eve  came  round,  and 
Lady  Thetford  was  much  better,  not  able  to  quit  her 
room,  but  strong  enough  to  lie  on  a  sofa  and  talk  to  her 
bon  and  Colonel  Jocyln,  with  a  flush  on  her  cheek,  and  a 
sparkle  in  her  eye — all  unusual  there. 

The  marriage  was  to  take  place  in  the  village  church, 
and  there  was  to  follow  a  grand  ceremonial  wedding- 
breakfast  ;  and  then  the  happy  pair  were  to  start  at  once 
on  their  blissful  bridal-tour. 

"  And  I  hope  to  see  my  boy  return,"  Lady  Thetford  said, 
kissing  him  fondly.  "  I  can  hardly  ask  for  more  than 
that." 

Late  in  the  afternoon  of  that  eventful  wedding-eve,  the 
ex-governess  sought  out  Guy  Legard,  for  the  first  time  of 
her  own  accord.  She  found  him  in  the  young  baronet's 
studio,  with  May,  putting  the  finishing  touches  to  that 
young  lady's  portrait.  He  started  up  at  sight  of  his  vis- 
itor, vividlv  interested     Mrs.  Weymore  was  paler  even 


u 


■'ifi^sfein^is^i 


^:;:»'"S^-Jj;i!i¥S'-<^'. 


t 


OiV  r/^i?  WEDDING  EVE. 


345 


than  usual,  but  with  a  look  of  deep,  quiet  determination 
on  her  face  no  one  had  ever  seen  there  before. 

"  You  have  come  to  keep  your  promise,"  the  young  man 
cried — "  to  tell  me  who  I  am  ? " 

"I  have  come  to  keep  my  promise,"  Mrs.  Weymore 
answered  ;  "  but  I  must  speak  to  my  lady  first.  I  want- 
ed to  tell  you  that,  before  you  sleep  to-night,  you  shall 
know." 

She  left  the  studio,  and  the  two  sat  there,  breathless, 
expectant.  Sir  Rupert  was  dinng  at  Jocyln  Hall,  Lady 
Thetford  wai  alone,  in  high  spirits,  and.  Mrs.  Weymore 
was  admitted  at  once. 

"  I  wonder  how  long  you  must  wait  ? "  said  May  Ever- 
ard. 

"  Heaven  knows  I  Not  long,  I  hope,  or  I  shall  go  mad 
with  impatience." 

An  hour  passed — ^two — ^three,  and  still  Mrs.  Weymore 
was  closeted  with  my  lady,  and  still  the  pair  in  the  studio 
waited. 


i 

f 


CHAPTER  XII. 

MRS.   WEYMORE'S   story. 

ADY  THETFORD  sat  up  among  her  pillows 
and  looked  at  her  hired  dependent  with  wide 
open  eyes  of  astonishment.  The  pale,  timid 
face  of  Mrs.    Weymore  wore  a  look  altogether 

new. 

"  Listen  to  your  story  1  My  dear  Mrs.  Weymore,  what 
possible  interest  can  your  story  have  for  me  ? " 

"  More  than  you  think,  my  lady.  You  are  so  much 
stronger  to-day  than  usual,  and  Sir  Rupert's  marriage  is 
so  very  near,  that  I  must  speak  now  or  never." 

"  Sir  Rupert,"  my  lady  said.  "  What  has  your  story 
to  do  with  Sir  Rupert  ? " 

"You  will  hear,"  Mrs.  Weymore  said,  very  sadly. 
"  Heaven  knows  I  should  have  told  you  long  ago ;  but  it 
is  a  story  few  would  care  to  tell.  A  cruel  and  shameful 
story  of  wrong  and  misery ;  for,  my  lady,  I  have  been 
cruelly  wronged  by  one  who  was  once  very  near  to  you." 

Lady  Thetford  turned  ashen  white. 

"  Very  near  to  me  !    do  you  mean — " 

"  My  lady  listen,  and  you  shall  hear.  All  those  years  that 
I  have  been  with  you,  I  have  not  been  what  I  seemed.  My 
name  is  not  Weymore.    My  name  is  Thetford— as  yours  is." 

A  quick  terror  had  settled  down  on  my  lady's  face.    Her 


' 


i;«t»|Sj)ii 


MRS.    WEYMORE'S  STORY. 


347 


■r 


s 
e 
d 

•X 

It 

h 

is 

7 

y- 

it 
ul 


lat 

ly 

.  >» 
>• 

er 


lips  moved,  but  she  did  not  speak.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on 
the  sad,  set  face  before  her,  with  a  terrified,  expectant  stare. 

"  I  was  a  widow  when  I  came  to  you,"  Mrs.  Weymore 
went  on  to  say,  "  but,  long  before,  I  had  known  that  worst 
widowhood,  desertion.  I  ran  away  from  my  happy  home, 
from  the  kindest  father  and  mother  that  ever  lived ;  I  ran 
away,  and  was  married  and  deserted  before  I  was  eighteen 
years  old. 

"  He  came  to  our  village,  a  remote  place,  my  lady,  with 
a  local  celebrity  for  its  trout  streams,  and  for  nothing  else. 
He  came,  the  man  whom  I  married,  on  a  visit  to  the  great 
house  of  the  place.  We  had  not  the  remotest  connection 
with  the  house,  or  I  might  have  known  his  real  name. 
When  I  did  know  him,  it  was  as  Mr.  Noel — he  told  me  him- 
self, and  I  never  thought  of  doubting  it.  I  was  as  simple 
and  confiding  as  it  is  possible  for  the  simplest  village 
girl  to  be,  and  all  the  handsome  stranger  told  me  was 
gospel  truth ;  and  my  life  only  began,  I  thought,  from  the 
hour  I  saw  him  first. 

"  I  met  him  at  the  trout-streams  fishing,  and  alone.  I 
had  come  to  while  away  the  long,  lazy  hours  under  the  trees. 
He  spoke  to  me — the  handsome  stranger,  whom  I  had 
seen  riding  through  the  village,  beside  the  squire,  like  a 
young  prince';  and  I  was  only  too  pleased  and  flattered  by 
his  notice.  It  is  many  years  ago,  Lady  Thetford,  and  Mr, 
Noel  took  a  fancy  to  my  pink-and-white  face  and  fair  curls,  as 
fine  gentlemen  will.  It  was  only  fancy — never  at  its  best, 
love  ;  or  he  would  not  have  deserted  me  pitilessly  as  he 
did.  I  know  it  now ;  but  then  I  took  the  tinsel  for  the 
pure  gold,  and  would  as  soon  have  doubted  the  Sc-ipture 
as  his  lightest  word. 

"  My  lady,  it  is  a  very  old  story,  and  very  often  told. 


i 
I 


^'-M*^ 


a 


4 


348  ^^R  NOEL'S  HEIR. 

We  met  by  stealth  and  in  secret ;  and  weeks  passed,  and 
I  never  learned  he  was  other  than  what  I  knew  him. 
I  loved  with  my  whole  foolish  trusting  heart,  strongly  and 
selfishly  ;  and  I  was  ready  to  give  up  home,  and  friends 
and  parents — all  the  world  for  him.  But  not  my  good 
name,  and  he  knew  that ;  and  my  lady,  we  were  married 
really  and  truly,  and  honestly  married  in  a  little  church 
in  Berkshire,  and  the  marriage  is  recorded  in  the  register 
in  the  church,  and  I  have  the  marriage  certificate  here  in 
my  possession." 

Mrs.  Weymore  touched  her  bosom  as  she  spoke,  and 
looked  with  earnest,  truthful  eyes  at  Lady  Thetford.  But 
Lady  Thetford's  face  was  averted,  and  not  to  be  seen. 

"  His  fancy  for  me  was  as  fleeting  as  all  his  fancies ; 
but  it  was  strortg  enough  and  reckless  enough,  whilst  it 
lasted,  to  make  him  forget  all  consequences.  For  it  was 
surely  a  reckless  act  for  a  gentleman,  such  as  he  was,  to 
marry  the  daughter  of  a  village  schoolmaster. 

"  There  was  but  one  witness  to  our  marriage — my  hus- 
band's servant — George  Vyking.  I  never  liked  the  man ; 
he  was  crafty,  and  cunning,  and  treacherous,  and  ready 
for  any  deed  of  evil ;  but  he  was  in  his  master's  confidence 
and  took  a  house  for  us  at  Windsor,  and  lived  with  us 
and  kept  his  master's  secrets  well. 

Mrs.  Weymore  paused,  her  hands  fluttering  in  painful 
unrest.  The  averted  face  of  Lady  Thetford  never  turned, 
but  a  smothered  voice  bade  her  "^  on. 

"  A  year  passed,  my  lady,  and  I  still  lived  in  the  house 
at  Windsor,  but  quite  alone  now.  My  punishment  had 
begun  very  early ;  two  or  three  months  sufficed  to  weary 
my  husband  of  his  childish  village  girl,  and  make  him 
thoroughly  repent  his  folly.     I  saw  it  from  the  first — ^he 


f 


MRS.  WEVMORE'S  STORY 


never  tried  to  hide  it  from  me ;  his  absences  grew  longer 
and  longer,  more  and  more  frequent,  until  at  last  he  ceased 
coming  altogether.  Vyking,  the  valet,  came  and  went ;  and 
Vyking  told  me  the  truth — the  hard,  cruel,  bitter  truth, 
that  I  was  never  to  see  my  husband  more. 

" '  It  was  the  maddest  act  of  a  mad  young  man's  life,' 
Vyking  said  to  me,  coolly,  'and  he's  repented  of  it,  as  I 
knew  he  would  repent.  You'll  never  see  him  again, 
mistress,  and  you  needn't  search  for  him,  either.  When 
you  find  last  winter's  snow,  last  autumn's  partridges,  then 
you  may  hope  to  find  him.' 

"'But  I  am  his  wife,'  I  said;  'nothing  can  undo  that 
— his  lawful,  wedded  wife.' 

" '  Yes,'  said  Vyking,  '  his  wife  fast  enough  ;  but  there's 
the  law  of  divorce,  and  there's  no  witness  but  me  alive. 
You  can  do  your  best ;  and  the  best  you  can  do  is  to 
take  it  easy  and  submit.  He'll  provide  for  you  handsomely ; 
ard  when  he  gets  the  divorce,  if  you  lik",  I'll  marry  you 
myself.' 

"  I  had  grown  to  expect  some  such  revelation,  I  had 
been  neglected  so  long.  My  lady,  I  don't  speak  of  my 
feelings,  my  anguish  and  shame,  and  remorse  and  despair. 
— I  only  tell  you  here  simple  facts.  But  in  the  days  and 
weeks  which  followed,  I  suffered  as  I  never  can  suffer 
again  in  this  world. 

"I  was  held  little  better  than  a  prisoner  in  the  house  at 
Windsor  after  that ;  and  I  think  Vyking  never  gave  up 
the  hope  that  I  would  one  day  consent  to  marry  him. 
More  than  once  I  tried  to  run  away,  to  get  on  the  track  of 
my  betrayer,  but  always  to  be  met  and  foiled.  I  have 
gone  down  on  my  knees  to  that  man  Vyking,  but  I  might 
as  well  have  knelt  to  a  statue  of  stone. 


r'l 


^K 


SIX  NOEVS  HEIR. 
350 

...1.11  tell  you  what  Wll  do.'  he  said,   'WH  go  to 
London.    People  are  beginning  to  look  and  talk  about 
u         ^i^^rP  thev  know  how  to  mind  their  own  business, 
^^i   ^eS  rSy  enough.     My  one  hope  now  w 

to  find  the  man  who  had  --"^^^ /"^' ^"^"  t°"^°we 

ot,  Ster  that  I  hardly  remember  anythmg  for  a  long 
'^"  Weeks  passed  before  I  recovered.    Then  I  was  told 

tL  fo  act,  a,.d  could  only  turn  my  face  to  the  waU  and 

""Ctgrew  strong,  and  Vyklng  took  me  .0  Lo^aon 
and  left  ^  in  -p.c.ably-£umisl.ed  Wg,"^^  ■  »^^^ 
ha.e  escaped  ^''"y '"""^l^^' *"i Xgh  » »'»« ->« 

„f  ..sin  He  and  his  master  had  quarrelled.  I  .ever 
trrut  what,  and  Vyking  had  been jnommtous^ 
dtemissed.    The  valet  tore  up  and  dovm  my  Lttle  parlor 

^'.'?ZSt";.payforit,ormyname;snonryW< 

„e  cried.  'He  thinks  >-»- ,^f  .^^fth^ laX 
::n^^:^;:arniTa:p  -h.amy.he 
moment  he's  back  from  his  weddmg-tour. 


'? 


1 


^^^■nv,^.:-^. 


1 


. 


MRS.  WEYMORE'S  STORY. 


351 

'Sir 


"  I  turned,  and  looked  at  him,  but  very  quietly. 
Noel  ? '  I  said.     '  Do  you  mean  my  husband  ? ' 

" '  I  mean  Miss  Vandeleur's  husband  now,'  said  Vyking. 
*  YouUl  never  see  him  again,  my  girl.  Yes,  he's  Sir  Noel 
Thetford,  of  Thetford  Towers,  Devonshire ;  and  you  can 
go  and  call  on  his  pretty  new  wife  as  soon  as  she  comes 
home.' 

"I  turned  away  and  looked  out  of  the  window  without 
a  word.    Vyking  looked  at  me  curiously. 

" '  Oh  !  we've  got  over  it,  have  we ;  and  we're  going  to 
take  it  easy,  and  not  make  a  scene.  Now  that's  what  I 
call  sensible.  And  you'll  come  forward  and  swear  Sir 
Noel  guilty  of  bigamy  ? ' 

" '  No,'  I  said,  '  I  never  will !' 
" '  You  won't — and  why  not? ' 

" '  Never  mind  why.    I  don't  think  you  would  under- 
stand if  I  told  you — only  I  won't.' 
" '  Couldn't  you  be  coaxed  ? ' 
"'No.' 

" '  Don't  be  too  sure.  Perhaps  I  could  tell  you  some- 
thing might  move  you,  quiet  as  you  are.  What  if  I  told 
you  your  baby  did  not  die  that  time,  but  was  alive  and 
well?' 

"  I  knew  a  scene  was  worse  than  useless  with  this  man, 
tears  and  entreaties  thrown  away.  I  heard  his  last  words, 
and  started  to  my  feet  with  outstretched  hands. 

"'Vyking,  for  the  dear  Lord's  sake,  have  pity  on  a 
desolate  woman,  and  tell  me  the  truth.' 

'"  I  am  telling  you  the  truth.  Your  boy  is  alive  and 
well,  and  I've  christened  him  Guy— Guy  Vyking.  Don't 
you  be  scared — he's  all  safe ;  and  the  day  you  appear  in 
court  against  Sir  Noel,  that  day  he  shall  be  restored  to 


.  i 


352 


S//t  NOELS  HEIR, 


w 


\   t 


you.    Now  don't  you  go  and  get  excited ;  think  it  ove:, 
and  let  me  know  your  decision  when  I  come  back.' 

"  He  left  the  room  before  I  could  answer,  and  I  never 
saw  Vyking  again.  The  next  day,  reading  the  morning 
paper,  I  saw  the  arrest  of  a  pair  of  housebreakers,  and  the 
name  of  the  chief  was  George  Vyking,  late  valet  to  Sir 
Noel  Thetford.  I  tried  to  get  to  see  him  in  prison,  but 
failed.  His  trial  came  on,  his  sentence  was  transportation 
for  ten  years  ;  and  Vyking  left  England,  carrying  my  secret 
with  him. 

"  I  had  something  left  to  live  for  now — the  thought  of 
my  child.  But  where  was  I  to  find  him,  where  to  look  ? 
I,  who  had  not  a  penny  in  the  wide  world.  If  I  had  had 
the  means,  I  would  have  come  to  Devonshire  to  seek  out 
the  man  who  had  so  basely  wronged  me ;  but  as  I  was,  I 
could  as  soon  have  gone  to  the  antipodes.  Oh  1  it  was 
bitter,  bitter  time,  that  long,  hard  struggle  with  starvation 
— a  time  it  chills  my  blood  even  now  to  look  back  upon. 

"  I  was  still  in  London,  battling  with  grim  poverty,  when, 
six  months  later,  I  read  in  the  Times  the  awfully  sudden 
death  of  Sir  Noel  Thetford,  Baronet. 

"  My  lady,  I  am  not  speaking  of  the  effect  of  that  blow 
— I  dare  not  to  you,  as  deeply  wronged  as  myself.  You 
were  with  him  in  his  dying  moments,  and  surely  he  told 
you  the  truth  then;  surely  he  acknowledged  the  great 
wrong  he  had  done  you  ? " 

Mrs.  Weymore  paused,  and  Lady  Thetford  turned  hei 
face,  her  ghastly,  white  face,  for  the  first  time,  to  answer. 

"  He  did — he  told  me  all ;  I  know  your  story  to  be 
true." 

"Thank  God  I  Oh,  thank  God  1  And  he  acknowledged 
his  first  marriage?" 


r^^>r""»y.'g:v-:-,;',i;' 


MRS.  WE YMORE'S  STORY. 


353 


"  Yes  J  the  wrong  he  did  you  was  venial  to  that  which 
he  did  me — I,  who  never  was  his  wife,  never  for  one  poor 
moment  had  a  right  to  his  name." 

Mrs.  Weymore  sunk  down  on  her  knees  by  the  couch, 
and  passionately  kissed  the  lady's  hand. 

"  My  lady  1  my  lady  1  And  you  will  forgive  me  for 
coming  here  ?  I  did  not  know,  when  I  answered  Mr. 
Knight's  advertisement,  where  I  was  coming ;  and  when 
I  did  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  looking  on  his 
son.  Oh,  my  lady  1  you  will  forgive  me,  and  bear  witness 
to  the  truth  of  my  story." 

"  I  will ;  1  always  meant  to  before  I  died.  And  that 
young  man— that  Guy  Legard— you  know  he   is   your 

son?" 

"  I  knew  it  from  the  first.  My  lady,  you  will  let  me 
tell  him  at  once,  will  you  not  ?  And  Sir  Rupert  ?  Oh,  my 
lady !  he  ought  to  know." 

Lady  Thetford  covered  her  face  with  a  groan.  "I 
promised  his  father  on  his  death-bed  to  tell  him  long  ago, 
to  seek  for  his  rightful  heir— and  see  how  I  have  kept  my 
word.  But  I  could  not — I  could  not  I  It  was  not  in  human 
nature— not  in  such  a  nature  as  mine,  wronged  as  I  have 

been." 

"  But  now— oh,  my  dear  lady  I  now  you  will  ? " 
"  Yes,  now,  on  the  verge  of  the  grave,  I  may  surely  speak. 
I  dare  not  die  with  my  promise  unkept.  This  very  night,'' 
Lady  Thetford  cried,  sitting  up,  flushed  and  excu'^d,  "  my 
boy  shall  know  all— he  shall  not  marry  in  ignora  ice  of 
whom  he  really  is.  Aileen  has  the  fortune  of  a  pri  icess  ; 
and  Aileen  will  not  love  him  less  for  the  title  he  must  lose. 
When  he  comes  home,  Mrs.  Weymore,  send  him  to  me, 
and  send  your  son  with  him,  and  I  will  tell  them  all." 


\ 


•»J 


w 


ffl 


CHAPTER  Xni. 

"THERE   IS   MANY   A  SUP." 

ROOM  that  was  like  a  picture— a  carpet  of 
rose-buds  gleaming  through  rich-green  moss, 
lounges  piled  with  downy-silk  pillows,  a  bed 
curtained  in  lace,  foamy  white,  plump,  and 
tempting,  fluted  panels,  and  delicious  little  medallion 
pictures  of  celebrated  beauties  smiling  down  from 
the  pink-tinted  back-ground;  a  pretty  room-Aileen 
Jocyln's  (hambre-a-coucher,  and  looking  like  a  picture  her- 
self in  a  loose,  flowing  morning-robe,  all  ungirdled,  the 
rich  dark  hair  falling  heavy  and  unbound  to  her  waist, 
Aile'en  Jocyln  lay  among  piles  of  cushions,  like  some  young 

Eastern  Sultana.  .  ^  .    ,    .  -i^ 

Lay  and  mused  with,  oh!  such  an  infinitely  happy  smile 
upon  her  exquisite  face;  mused,  as  happy  youth,  loving 
and  beloved,  upon  its  bridal-eve  does  muse.  Nay,  on 
her  bridal-day,  for  the  dainty  little  French  clock  on  the 
bracket,  was  pointing  its  golden  hands  to  three. 

The  house  was  very  still ;  all  had  retired  late,  busy  with 
preparations  for  the  morrow,  and  Miss  Jocyln  had  just 
dismissed  her  maid.  Every  one,  probably,  butherself,  was 
asleep  ;  and  she,  in  her  unutterable  bliss,  was  too  happy 
for  slumber.  She  arose,  presently,  walked  to  the  window 
and  looked  out.    The  late-setting  moon  still  swung  in 


mw*_ 


^•^ 


^  'ir  J15;?JJ!!5S -ilil^ 


"  THERE  IS  MANY  A  SLIP." 


355 


on 


the  sky ;  the  stars  still  spangled  the  cloudless  blue,  and 
shone  serene  on  the  purple  bosom  of  the  far-spreading 
sea  ;  but  in  the  East  the  first  pale  glimmer  of  the  new  day 
shone— her  happy  wedding-day.  The  girl  slid  down  on 
her  knees,  her  hands  clasped,  her  radiant  face,  glorified 
with  love  and  bliss,  turned  ecstatically,  as  some  faithful 
follower  of  the  Prophet  might,  to  that  rising  glory  of  the 
East. 

"  Oh  1 "  Aileen  thought,  gazing  around  over  the  dark, 
deep  sea,  the  star-gemmed  sky,  and  the  green  radiance 
and  sweetness  of  the  earth,  "what  a  beautiful,  blissful 
world  it  is,  and  I  the  happiest  creature  in  it ! " 

She  returned  to  her  cushions,  and  -fell  asleep ;  slept, 
and  dreamed  dreams  as  joyful  as  her  waking  thoughts, 
and  no  sliadow  of  that  gathering  cloud  that  was  to 
blacken  all  her  world  so  soon,  fell  upon  her. 

Hours  passed,  and  still  Aileen  slept.  Then  came  an 
imperative  knock  at  her  door — again  and  again,  louder 
each  time ;  and  then  Aileen  started  up,  fully  awake.  Her 
room  was  flooded  with  sunshine,  countless  birds  sang  in 
the  swaying  green  gloom  of  the  branches,  and  the  ceaseless 
sea  was  all  aglitter  with  sparkling  sunlight. 

"  Come  in,"  Miss  Jocyln  said.  It  was  her  maid,  she 
thought — and  she  walked  over  to  an  arm-chair,  and  com- 
posedly sat  down. 

The  door  opened,  and  Colonel  Jocyln,  not  Fanchon, 
appeared,  an  open  note  in  his  hand,  his  face  full  of 
trouble. 

"  Papa !  "  Aileen  cried,  starting  up  in  alarm. 

"  Bad  news,  my  daughter — very  bad  !  very  sorrowful  J 
Read  that. 

The  note  was  very  brief,  in  a  spidery,  female  hand. 


_B,^sHjaat,«l<  o.. 


il 


l! 


tt 


I' 


356 


^/;?  NOEL'S  HEIR. 


«  Dear  Colonel  Jocyln— We  are  in  the  greatest  trouble. 
Poor  Lady  Thetford  died  with  awful  suddenness  this 
morning,  in  one  of  those  dreadful  spasms.  We  are  all 
nearly  distracted.  Rupert  bears  it  better  than  any  of  us. 
Pray  come  over  as  soon  as  you  can. 

"  May  Everard." 

"  Aileen  Jocyln  sunk  back  in  her  seat,  pale  and  trem- 
bling. 

"Deadl    O  papal  papal" 

"  It  is  very  sad,  my  dear,  and  very  shocking ;  and  terri- 
bly unfortunate  that  it  should  have  occurred  just  at  this 
time      A  postponed  wedding  is  ever  ominous  of  evil. 

"Oh!  pray,  papa,  don't  think  of  that.  Don't  think  of 
me!  Poor  Lady  Thetford  1  Poor  Rupert!  You  will  go 
over  at  once,  papa,  will  you  not?" 

"Certainly,  my  dear.  And  I  will  tell  the  servants  so 
that  when  our  guests  arrive,  you  may  not  be  disturbed. 
Since  it  was  to  be,"  muttered  the  Indian  officer  under  his 
mustache,  "  I  would  give  half  my  fortune  that  it  had  been 
one  day  later.     A  postponed  marriage  is  the  most  ominous 

thing  under  the  sun."  ..,,■■     1        j 

He  left  the  room,  and  Aileen  sat  with  her  hands  clasped, 
and  an  unutterable  awe  overpowering  every  other  feeling. 
She  forgot  her  own  disappointment  in  the  awful  mystery  of 
sudden  death.  Her  share  of  the  trial  was  light-a  year  of 
waiting,  more  or  less;  what  did  it  "f «;;'«';"/"?;'! 
loved  her  unchangeably;  but,  poor  Lady  Thetford,  called 
away  in  one  instant  from  earth,  and  all  she  held  most  dear, 
on  her  son's  wedding-day.  And  then  Aileen,  remember- 
ing how  much  the  dead  woman  had  loved  her,  and  how 
fondly  she  had  welcomed  her  as  a  daughter,  covered  her 


I 


"  THERE  IS  At  ANY  A  SUP." 


357 


face  with  her  hands,  and  wept  as  she  might  have  wept  for 
her  own  mother. 

"  I  never  knew  a  mother's  love  or  care,"  Aileen  thought ; 
"  and  I  was  doubly  happy  in  knowing  I  was  to  have  one  at 
last.     And  now— and  now—" 

It  was  a  drearily  long  morning  to  the  poor  bride  elect, 
sitting  alone  in  her  chamber,  or  pacing  restlessly  up  and 
down.  She  heard  the  roll  of  carriages  up  the  drive,  the 
pause  that  ensued,  and  then  their  departure.  She  won- 
dered how  he  bore  it ;  best  of  all,  May  had  said ;  but  then 
he  was  ever  still,  and  strong,  and  self-restrained.  She 
knew  how  dear  that  poor,  ailing  mother  had  ever  been  to 
him,  and  she  knew  how  bitterly  he  would  feel  her  loss. 

"  They  talk  of  presentiments,"  mused  Miss  Jocyln,  walk- 
ing wearily  to  and  fro  ;  "  and  see  how  happy  and  hopeful 
I  was  this  morning,  while  she  lay  dead  and  he  mourned. 
If  I  only  dared  go  to  him— my  own  Rupert." 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  before  Col.  Jocyln  returned. 
He  strode  straight  to  his  daughter's  presence,  wearing  a 
pale,  fagged  face. 

"Well,  papa?"  she  asked, faintly. 

"  My  pale  Aileen  1 "  he  said,  kissing  her  fondly,  "  my 

poor,  patient  girl.     I  am  sorry  you  must  undergo  this 

trial,  and,"  knitting  his  brows,  "such  talk  as  it  will  make." 

"  Don't  think  of  me,  papa— my  share  is  surely  the 

lightest.     But  Rupert,—"  wistfully  faltering. 

"  There's  something  odd  about  Rupert ;  he  was  very 
fond  of  his  mother,  and  he  takes  this  a  great  deal  too 
quietly.  He  looks  like  a  man  slowly  turning  to  stone, 
with  a  face  white  and  stem,  and  inscrutable;  and 
he  never  asked  for  you.  He  sat  there  with  folded 
arms,  and  that  petrified  face,  gazing  on  his  dead,  until  it 


"X^ 


358 


SIR  NOELS  HEIR. 


chilled  my  blood  to  look  at  him.  There's  something  odd 
and  unnatural  in  this  frozen  calm.  And,  oh  !  by-the-by  ? 
I  forgot  to  tell  you  the  strangest  thing— May  Everard  it 
was  who  told  me ;  that  painter  fellow — what's  his  name — " 

"  Legard,  papa  ? " 

"Yes,  Legard.  He  turns  out  to  be  the  son  of  Mrs. 
Weymore — they  discovered  it  last  night.  He  was  there  in 
the  room  with  the  most  dazed  and  mystified,  and  alto- 
gether bewildered  expression  of  countenance  I  ever  saw  a 
man  wear;  and  May  and  Mrs.  Weymore  sat  crying  inces- 
santly. I  couldn't  see  what  occasion  there  was  for  the 
governess  and  the  painter  there  in  that  room  of  death — 
and  I  said  so  to  Miss  Everard.  There's  something  mys- 
terious in  the  matter,  for  her  face  flushed,  and  she  stam- 
mered something  about  startling  family  sec. els  that  had 
come  to  light,  the  over-excitement  of  which  had  has- 
tened Lady  Thetford's  end.  I  don't  like  the  look  of 
things,  and  I'm  altogether  in  the  dark.  That'  painter 
resembles  the  Thetfords  a  great  deal  too  closely  for  the 
mere  work  of  chance ;  and  yet,  if  Mrs.  Weymore  is  his 
mother,  I  don't  s?*^  how  there  can  be  anything  in  that.  It's 
odd — confoupuedly  odd  1 " 

Col.  Jocyln  rambled  on  as  he  walked  the  floor,  his  brows 
knitted  into  a  swarthy  frown.  His  daughter  sat  ai.d  eyed 
him  wistfully. 

"  Did  no  one  ask  for  me,  papa  ?    Am  I  not  to  go  over  ? " 

"  Sir  Rupert  didn't  ask  for  you.  May  Everard  did,  and 
I  promised  to  fetch  you  to-morrow.  Aileen,  things  at 
Thetford  Towers  have  a  suspicious  look  to-day ;  I  can't 
see  the  light  yet,  but  I  suspect  something  wrong,  "it  may 
be  the  very  best  thing  that  could  possibly  happen,  this 
postponed  marriage.     I  shall  make  Sir  Rupert  clear  mat- 


WP" 


m 


« THERE  IS  MANY  A  SL/P." 


359 


ters  up  completely  before  my  daughter  becomes  his 
wife." 

Col.  Jocyln,  according  to  promise,  took  his  daughter  to 
Thetford  Towers  next  morning.  With  bated  breath,  and 
beating  heart,  and  noiseless  tread,  Aileen  Jocyln  entered 
the  house  of  mourning,  which  yesterday  she  had  thought 
to  enter  a  bride.  Dark  and  still,  and  desolate  it  lay,  the 
brilliant  morning  light  shut  out,  unbroken  silence  every- 
where. 

"  And  this  is  the  end  of  earth,  its  glory  and  its  bliss," 
Aileen  thought,  as  she  followed  her  father  slowly  up  stairs, 
"the  solemn  wonder  of  the  winding-sheet  and  the  grave." 

There  were  two  watchers  in  the  dark  room  when  they 
entered.  May  Everard,  pale  and  quiet,  and  the  yoong 
artist,  Guy  Legard.  Even  in  that  moment.  Col.  Jocyln 
could  not  repress  a  supercilious  stare  of  wonder  to  behold 
the  housekeeper's  son  in  the  death-chamber  of  Lady  Thet- 
ford. And  yet  it  seemed  strangely  his  place,  for  it  might 
have  been  one  of  those  lusty  old  Thetfords,  framed 
up  stairs,  stepped  out  of  the  canvas,  and  dressed  in  the 
fashion  of  the  day. 

"Very  bad  taste  all  the  same,"  the  proud  old  colonel 
thought,  with  a  frown ;  "  very  bad  taste  on  the  part  of  Sir 
Rupert.     I  shall  speak  to  him  on  the  subject  presently." 

He  stood  in  silence  beside  his  daughter,  looking  down 
at  the  marble  face.  May,  shivering  drearily  in  a  large 
shawl,  and  looking  like  a  wan  little  spirit,  was  speaking  in 
whispers  to  Aileen. 

"  We  persuaded  Rupert — Mr.  Legard  and  I — to  go  and 
lie  down ;  he  has  neither  eaten  nor  slept  since  his  mother 
died.     O  Aileen !  I  am  so  sorry  for  you ! " 

"  Hush  1 "  raising  one  tremulous  hand  and  turning  away ; 


mp 


:i^ 


i^ 


*ii 


36o 


Srj.  NOEVS  HEIR. 


s-f'> 


^1 


"  she  was  as  dear  to  me  as  my  own  mother  could  huve 
been.     Don't  think  of  me." 

"Shall  we  not  see  Sir  Rupert?"    the  colonel  asked. 
"  I  should  like  to,  particularly." 

"I  think  not— unless  you  remain  for  some  hours.     He 
is  completely  worn  out,  poor  fellow."  ^^ 

"  How  comes  that  young  man  here.  Miss  Everard  ? 
nodding  in  the  direction  of  Mr.  Legard,  who  had  with- 
drawn to  a  remote  corner.     «  He  may  be  ?  very  especial 
friend  of  Sir  Rupert,  but  don't  you  think  he  presumes  on 
that  friendship  ? " 

Miss  Everard's  eyes  flashed  angrily. 

«  No,  sir  1  I  think  nothing  of  the  sort.  Mr.  Legard 
has  a  perfect  right  to  be  in  this  room,  or  any  other  room 
at  Thetford  Towers.     It  is  by  Rupert's  particular  request 

he  remains."  ,  , .    ,      t 

The  colonel  frowned  again,  and  turned  his  back  upon 

the  speaker.  .        .    •  • 

"  Aileen,"  he  said,  haughtily,  "as  Sir  Rupert  is  not  visi- 
ble nor  likely  to  be  for  some  time,  perhaps  you  had  better 
not  linger.  To-morrow,  after  the  funeral,  I  shall  speak  to 
him  very  seriously." 

Miss  Jocyln  arose.  She  would  rather  have  lingered, 
but  she  saw  her  fatht  's  annoyed  face,  and  obeyed  him  im- 
mediately. She  bent  and  kissed  the  cold,  white  face, 
awful  with  the  dread  majesty  of  death. 

"For  the  last  time,  my  friend,  my  mother,"  she  mur- 
mured, "  until  we  meet  in  heaven." 

She  drew  her  veil  over  her  face  to  hide  her  falling  tears, 
and  silently  followed  the  stern  and  displeased  Indian 
officer  down  stairs,  and  out  of  the  house.  She  looked 
back  wistfully  once  at  the  gray,  old  ivy  grown  fa9ade; 


wiw;pf. 


rii 


rji^l 


««  THERE  IS  MANY  A  SUP." 


361 


but  who  was  to  tell  her  of  the  weary,  weary  months  and 
years  that  would  pass  before  she  crossed  that  stately 
threshold  again. 

It  was  a  very  grand  and  imposing  ceremonial  that  bur- 
ial of  Lady  Thetford  j  and  side  by  side  with  the  heir,  clad 
ill  deepest  mourning,  walked  the  unknown  painter,  Guy 
I,egard.  Colonel  Jocyln  was  not  the  only  friend  of  the  family 
^shocked  and  scandalized  on  this  occasion.  What  co\ild 
Sir  Rupert  mean  ?  And  what  did  Mr.  Legard  mean  by 
looking  ten  times  more  like  the  old  Thetford  race  than 
Sir  Noel's  own  son  and  heir  ? 

It  was  a  miserable  day,  this  day  of  the  funeral,  with  a 
low  complaining  wind  sighing  through  the  yew-trees, 
and  a  dark,  slanting  rain  lashing  the  sodden  earth.  There 
was  a  sky  of  lead  hanging  low  like  a  pall ;  and  it  was 
almost  dark,  in  the  rainy  gloaming,  when  Colonel 
Jocyln  and  Sir  Rupert  Thetford  stood  alone  before  the 
village  church.  Lady  Thetford  slept  with  the  rest  of  the 
name  in  the  stony  vaults ;  the  fair-haired  artist  stood  in  the 
porch  looking  at  the  slanting  lines  of  rain,  and  Sir  Rupert, 
with  a  face  wan,  and  stern,  in  the  dying  daylight,  stood 
face  to  face  with  the  colonel. 

"  A  private  interview,"  the  colonel  was  repeating ;  "  most 
certainly.  Sir  Rupert.  Will  you  come  with  me  to  Jocyln 
Hall?    My  daughter  will  wish  to  see  you." 

The  young  man  nodded,  went  back  a  moment  to  speak 
to  Legard,  and  then  followed  the  colonel  into  the  carriage. 
The  drive  was  a  very  silent  one — dark  gloom  lay  on  the 
faces  of  the  two  men.  A  vague,  chilling  presentiment  of 
impending  evil  on  the  Indian  officer,  as  he  uneasily  watch- 
ed the  young  man  who  had  so  nearly  been  his  son. 

Aileen  Jocyln,  roaming  like  a  restless  ghost  through  the 

16 


mv^vi'i 


mwmm 


J 


*M 


ili   ' 


?62 


SIR  NOEL'S  HEIR. 


lonely,  rooms,  saw  them  alight,  and  came  out  to  the 
hall  to  meet  her  betrothed.  She  held  out  both  hands  shyly 
and  wistfully,  looking  up,  half  in  fear,  in  that  rigid  death- 
white  face  of  her  lover. 

"  Aileen ! " 

He  took  the  hands,  and  held  them  fast  a  moment ;  then 
dropped  them,  and  turned  to  the  colonel. 

"  Now,  Colonel  Jocyln." 

The  colonel  led  the  way  into  the  library.  Sir  Rupert 
paused  a  moment  on  the  threshold  to  answer  Aileen's  plead- 
ing glance. 

"  Only  for  a  few  moments,  Aileen,"  he  said,  his  eyes 
softening  with  Infinite  love ;  "in  half  ar  hour  my  fate  shall 
be  decided.  Let  that  fate  be  what  it  may,  I  shall  be  true 
to  you  while  life  lasts." 

With  these  enigmatical  words,  he  followed  the  colonel 
into  the  library,  and  the  polished  oaken  door  closed  be- 
tween him  and  Aileen. 


Pi! 


ma 


>  the 
shyly 
leath- 


then 


•upert 
3lead- 


eyes 
!  shall 
e  true 


jlonel 
;d  be- 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

PARTED. 

ALF  an  hour  had  passed. 

Up  and  down  the  long  drawing-room  Aileerj 
wandered,  aimlessly,  restlessly,  oppressed  with 

an   overwhelming    dread    of,  she    knew  not 

what,  a  prescience  of  evil,  vague  as  it  was  terrible.  The 
dark  gloom  of  the  rainy  evening  was  not  darker  than  that 
brooding  shadow  in  her  deep,  dusky  eyes. 

In  the  library  Colonel  Jocyln  stood  facing  his  son-m-law 
elect,  staring  like  a  man  bereft  of  his  senses.  The  melan- 
choly half  light  coming  wanly  through  the  oriel  window 
by  which  he  stood,  fell  full  upon  the  face  of  Rupert  Thet- 
ford,  white  and  cold,  and  set  as  marble. 

"  My  God  !  "  the  Indian  officer  said,  with  wild  eyes  of 
terror  and  affright,  "  what  is  this  you  are  telling  me  ?  " 

"The  truth.  Col.  Jocyln— the  simple  truth.  V/ould  to 
Heaven  I  had  known  it  years  ago— this  shameful  story  of 
wrong-doing  and  misery  ! " 

"  I  don't  comprehend— I  can't  comprehend  this  impos- 
sible tale.  Sir  Rupert." 

"  That  is  a  misnomer  now,  Colonel  Jocyln.  I  am  no 
longer  Sir  Rupert." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  credit  this  wild  story  of  a 
former  marriage  of  Sir  Noel's?  Do  you  really  believe  your 
late  governess  to  have  been  your  father's  wife  ?  " 


3^4 


S/H  NOEL'S  HEIR. 


f  1 


"  I  believe  it,  colonel.  I  have  facts  and  statements,  and 
dying  words  to  prove  it.  On  my  father's  death-bed,  he 
made  my  mother  swear  to  tell  the  truth,  to  repair  the 
wrong  he  had  done ;  to  seek  out  his  son,  concealed  by  his 
valet,  Vyking,  and  restore  him  to  his  rights !  My  mother 
never  kept  that  promise— the  cruel  wrong  done  to  herself 
was  too  bitter  ;  and  at  my  birth  she  resolved  never  to  keep 
it.  I  should  not  atone  for  the  sin  of  my  father ;  his  elder 
son  should  never  deprive  her  child  of  his  birthright.  My 
poor  mother  1  You  know  the  cause  of  that  mysterious 
trouble  which  fell  upon  her  at  my  father's  death,  and  which 
darkened  her  life  to  the  last.  Shame,  remorse,  anger- 
shame  for  herself— a  wife  only  in  name  ;  remorse  for  her 
broken  vow  to  the  dead,  and  anger  against  that  erring 

dead  man." 

"But  you  told  me  she  had  hunted  him  up  and  provided 
for  him,"  said  the  mystified  colonel. 

"  Yes ;  slie  saw  an  advertisement  in  a  London  paper, 
calling  upon  Vyking  to  take  charge  of  the  boy  he  had  left 
twelve  years  before.  Now  Vyking,  the  valet,  had  been 
transported  for  house-breaking  long  before  that,  and  my 
mother  answered  the  advertisement.  There  could  be  no 
doubt  the  child  was  the  child  Vyking  had  taken  charge 
of— Sir  Noel  Thetford's  rightful  heir.  My  mother  left 
him  with  the  painter,  Legard,  with  whom  he  grew  up, 
whose  name  he  took ;  and  he  is  now  atThetford  Towers." 

"  I  thought  the  likeness  meant  something,"  muttered  the 
colonel  under  his  mustache,  "  his  paternity  is  plainly 
enough  written  in  his  face.  And  so,"  raising  his  voice, 
"  Mrs.  Weymore  recognized  her  son.  Really,  your  story 
runs  like  a  melo-drama,  where  the  hero  turns  out  to  be  a 
duke,  and  his  mother  knows  the  strawberry  mark  on  his 


vP 


IQPIP 


PARTED.  365 

arm      Well,  sir,  if  Mrs.  Weymore  is  Sir  Noel's  rightful 
widow,  and  Guy  Legard  his  rightful  son  and  heir— pray 

what  are  you  ? "  ,  ,    ,      j  * 

The  colorless  face  of  the  young  man  turned  dark-red  tor 
an  instant,  then  whiter  than  before. 

"  My  mother  was  as  truly  and  really  Sir  Noel's  wife  as 
woman  can  be  the  wife  of  man  in  the  sight  of  Heaven.  The 
crime  was  his ;  the  shame  and  suffering  hers ;  the  atone- 
ment mine.  Sir  Noel's  elder  son  shall  be  Sir  Noel's  heir— 
1  will  play  usurper  no  longer.  To-morrow  I  leave  St. 
Ck)sport;  the  day  after  England,  never  perhaps,  to  re- 
turn." .  , 
"You  are  mad,"  Colonel  Jocyln  said, turning  very  pale; 

"  you  do  not  mean  it."        ^ 

» I  am  not  mad,  and  I  do  mean  it.  I  may  be  unfortu- 
nate ;  but,  I  pray  God,  never  a  villain.  Right  is  right ; 
my  brother  Guy  is  the  rightful  heir— not  I." 

"And  Aileen?"  Colonel  Jocyln'sface  turned  dark  and 
rigid  as  iron  as  he  spoke  his  daughter's  name. 

Rupert  Thetford  turned  away  his  changing  face. 

"  It  shall  be  as  she  says.  Aileen  is  too  noble  and  just 
herself  not  to  honor  me  for  doing  right." 

"  It  shall  be  as  I  say,"  returned  Colonel  Jocyln,  with  a 
voice  that  rang,  and  an  eye  that  flashed.  "  My  daughter 
comes  of  a  proud  and  stainless  race,  and  never  shall  she 
mate  with  one  less  stainless.  Hear  me  out,  young  man.  It 
won't  do  to  fire  up — plain  words  are  best  suited  to  a  plain 
case.  All  that  has  passed  between  you  and  Miss  Jocyln 
must  be  as  if  it  had  never  been.  The  heir  of  Thetford 
Towers,  honorably  born,  I  consented  she  should  .marry ; 
but,  dearly  as  I  love  her,  I  would  see  her  dead  at  my  feet 
before   she   should  marry  one  who  was  nameless   and 


■^f^PPS 


■gaSpgipiMMMB' 


J 


A..uut»vWlia'»^  .-^i->iu»-Vitn4At.. 


366  S/U  NOEUS  HEIR. 

impoverished.     You  said  just  now  the    atonement  was 
yours— you  said  right ;  go,  and  never  return." 

He  pointed  to  the  door  ;   the  young  man,  stonily  still, 

took  his  hat. 

"Will  you  not  permit  your  daughter.  Colonel  Jocyln,  to 
speak  for  herself  ? "  he  said  at  the  door." 

"  No,  sir.  I  know  my  daughter— my  proud,  high-spirited 
Aileen,  and  my  ansv/er  is  hers.    I  wish  you  good-night." 

He  swung  round  abruptly,  turning  his  back  upon  his  vis- 
itor. Rupert  Thetford,  without  one  word,  turned  and 
walked  out  of  the  house. 

The  bewildering  rapidity  of  the  shocks  he  had  received 
had  stunned  him— he  could  not  feel  the  pain  now.  There 
was  a  dull  sense  of  aching  torture  upon  him  from  head  to 
foot— but  the  acute  edge  was  dulled ;  he  walked  along 
through  the  black  night  like  a  man  drugged  and  stupefied. 

He  was  only  conscious  intensely  of  one  thing — a  wish 
to  get  away,  never  to  set  foot  in  St.  Gosport  again. 

Like  one  walking  in  his  sleep,  he  reached  Thetford  Tow- 
ers, his  old  home,  every  tree  and  stone  of  which  was  dear 
to  him.  He  entered  at  once,  passed  into  the  drawing-room, 
and  found  Guy  Legard,  sitting  before  the  fire,  staring 
blankly  into  the  coals ;  and  May  Everard,  roaming  rest- 
lessly up  and  down,  the  firelight  falling  dully  on  her  black 
robes  and  pale,  tear-stained  face.  Both  started  at  his  en- 
trance— all  wet,  and  pale  and  haggard  ;  but  neither  spoke. 
There  was  that  in  his  face  which  froze  the  words  on  their 

lips. 

"  I  am  going  away  to-morrow,"  he  said,  abruptly,  lean- 
ing against  the  mantel,  and  looking  at  them  with  quiet, 
steadfast  eyes. 

May  uttered  a  faint  cry ;  Guy  faced  him  almost  fiercely. 


•  ■IJ,|II,J|W' 


PARTED. 


367 


"  Going  away  I  What  do  you  mean,  Sir  Rupert  ?  We 
are  going  away  together,  if  you  like." 

"No;  I  go  alone.    You  remain  here,  it  is  your  place 

now."  ,  , 

«  Never  I "  cried  the  young  artist,  passionately—  never  i 
I  will  go  out  and  die  like  a  dog,  of  starvation,  before  I 
rob  you  of  your  birthright  I "  ,..,  •    t 

"  You  reverse  matters,"  said  Rupert  Thetford  ;  '  it  is  I 
who  have  robbed  you,  unwittingly,  for  too  many  years.  I 
promised  my  mother  on  her  death-bed,  as  she  promised 
my  father  on  his,  that  you  should  have  your  right,  and  I 
will  keep  that  promise.  Guy,  dear  old  fellow  1  don't  let 
us  quarrel,  now  that  we  are  brothers,  after  being  friends 
so  long.  Take  what  is  your  own ;  the  world  is  all  before 
n  e,  and  surely  I  am  man  enough  to  win  my  own  way.  Not 
oi.<?  other  word ;  you  shall  not  come  with  me  ;  you  might 
as  wdl  talk  to  these  stone  walls  and  try  to  move  them  as 
to  move  me.    To-morrow  I  go,  and  go  alone." 

"  Alone  1 "     It  was  May  who  breathlessly  repeated  the 

word.  _ 

"  Alone  ;  all  the  ties  that  bound  me  here  are  broken  ;  1 
go  alone,  and  single-handed,  to  fight  the  battle  of  life 
Guy,  I  have  spoken  to  the  rector  about  you— you  will  find 
him  your  friend  and  aider ;  and  May  is  to  make  her  home 
at  the  rectory.  And  now,"  turning  suddenly,  and  mov- 
ing to  the  door,  «  as  I  start  early  to-morrow,  I  believe  I'll 
retire  early.     Good-night." 

And  then  he  was  gone,  and  Guy  and  May  were  left  star- 
ing at  each  other  with  blank  faces. 

The  storm  of  wind  and  rain  sobbed  itself  out  before 
midnight ;  and  in  the  bluest  of  skies,  heralded  by  banners 
of  rosy  clouds,  rose  up  the  sun  next  morning.    Before  that 


J 


'    ( 'I 


368 


Sm  NOELS  HEIR. 


rising  sun  had  gilded  the  tops  of  the  tallest  oaks  in  the 
park,  he,  who  had  so  lately  called  it  all  his  own,  had  open- 
ed the  heavy  oaken  door  and  passed  from  Thetford  Tow- 
ers, as  home,  forever.  The  house  was  very  still— no  one 
had  risen ;  he  had  left  a  note  to  Guy,  with  a  few  brief, 
warm  words  of  farewell. 

"  Better  so,"  he  thought—"  better  so  1  He  and  May  will 
be  happy  together,  for  I  know  he  loves  her,  and  she  him. 
The  memory  of  my  leave-taking  shall  never  come  to  cloud 
their  united  lives." 

One  last  backward  glance  at  the  eastern  windows  turn- 
ing to  gold  ;  at  the  sea  blushing  in  the  first  glance  of  the 
day-king  j  at  the  waving  trees  and  swelling  meadows, 
and  gray,  old  ivy-grown  front,  and  then  he  passed  down 
the  avenue,  out  through  the  massive  entrance-gates,  and 
was  gone. 


i.^.;a-i*<^i«*ias>i«i^'*--t-^  -■--■ 


in  the 
open- 
Tow- 

lO  one 
brief, 

ay  will 

e  him. 

cloud 

s  turn- 
of  the 
adows, 
down 
:s.  and 


CHAPTER  XV. 

AFTER  FIVE    YEARS. 

JOONLIGHT  falling  like  a  silvery  veil  over 
Venice— a  crystal  clear  crescent  in  a  pur- 
ple sky  shimmering  on  palace  and  prison, 
mmmmam  churches,  squares  and  canals,  on  the  glided 
gondolas,  and  the  flitting  forms  passing  like  noiseless  shad- 
ows to  and  fro. 

A  young  lady  leaned  from  a  window  of  a  vast  Venetian 
hotel,  gazing  thoughtfully  at  the  silver-lighted  landscape 
so  strange,  so  unreal,  so  dream-like,  to  her  unaccustomed 
eyes.  A  young  lady,  stately  and  tall,  with  a  pale,  proud 
face  deep,  dark  eyes,  solemn,  shining,  fathomless,  like 
mountain  tarns ;  floating  dark  ringlets  and  a  statuesque 
sort  of  beauty  that  was  perfect  in  its  way.  She  was 
dressed  in  trailing  robes  of  crape  and  bombazine,  and  the 
face,  turned  to  the  moonlight,  was  cold  and  still. 

She  turned  her  eyes  from  the  moonlit  canal,  down  which 
dark  gondolas  floated  to  the  music  of  the  gay  gondoliers 
song ;  once,  as  an  English  voice  in  the  piazza  below,  sung 
a  stave  of  a  jingling  barcarole, 

"  Oh  I  gay  we  row  where  full  tides  flow 
And  bear  our  bounding  pinnace ; 
And  leap  along  where  song  meets  song, 
Across  the  waves  of  Venibe." 

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370 


S/Ji  AVErS  HEIR. 


The  singer,  a  tall  young  man,  with  a  florid  face,  and 
yellow  side  whiskers,  an  unmistakable  son  of  the  "  right 
little,  tight  little  "  island,  paused  in  his  song,  as  another 
man,  stepping  through  an  open  window,  struck  him  an 
airy  sledge-hammer  slap  on  the  back. 

"  I  ought  to  know  that  voice,"  said  the  last  comer. 

"  Mortimer,  my  lad,  how  goes  it  ? " 

"  Stafford  1 "  cried  the  singer,  seizing  the  outstretched 
hand  in  a  genuine  English  grip,  "  happy  to  meet  you,  old 
boy,  in  the  land  of  romance  !  La  Fabre  told  me  you  were 
coming— but  who  would  look  for  you  so  soon  ?  I  thought 
you  were  doing  Sorrento  ?  " 

"  Got  tired  of  Sorrento,"  said  Stafford,  taking  his  arm 
for  a  walk  up  and  down  the  piazza  ;  "  there's  a  fever  there, 
too — quite  an  epidemic — malignant  typhus.  Discretion 
is  the  better  part  of  valor,  where  Sorrento  levers  are 
concerned.     I  left." 

"  When  did  you  reach  Venice  ?  "  asked  Mortimer,  light- 
ing a  cigar. 

"  An   hour   ago  ;   and   now   who's  here  ?     Any  one  I 

know?" 

"  Lots.  The  Cholmonadeys,  the  Lythons,  the  Howards, 
of  Leighwood  ;  and,  by-the-by,  they  have  with  them  the 
Marble  Bride." 

"  The  which  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Stafford. 

"  The  Marble  Bride,  the  Princess  Frostina,  otherwise 
Miss  Aileen  Jocyln,  of  Jocyln  Hall,  Devonshire.  You 
knew  the  old  colonel,  I  think — he  died  over  a  year  ago, 
you  remember." 

"  Ah,  yes !  I  remember.  Is  she  here  with  the  Howards, 
and  as  handsome  as  ever,  no  doubt  ?  " 

"  Handsome  to  my  mind,  with  an  uplifted  and  unapproach- 


face,  and 
I  the  "  right 
^s  another 
ck  him  an 


onier. 

iitstretched 

et  you,  old 

e  j'ou  were 

I  thought 

ng  his  arm 
fever  there, 
Discretion 
tevers  are 

imer,  light- 
Any  one  I 

;  Howards, 
them  the 


,  otherwise 
[lire.  You 
I  year  ago, 

Howards, 

lapproach- 


AFTER  FIVE  YEARS. 


371 


able  sort  of  beauty.  A  fellow  might  as  soon  love  some 
bright  particular  star,  etc.,  as  the  fabulously  wealthy  heiress 
of  all  thejocylns.  She  has  no  end  of  suitors — all  the  best 
men  here  bow  at  the  shrine  of  the  ice-cold  Aileen,  and  all 
in  vain." 

"  You  among  the  rest,  my  friend  ? "  with  a  light  laugh. 

"  No,  by  Jove  I  "  cried  Mr.  Mortimer  ; "  that  sort  of  thing, 
the  marble  style,  you  know,  never  was  to  my  taste.  I 
admire  Miss  Jocyln  immensely ;  just  as  I  do  that  moon  up 
there,  with  no  particular  desire  ever  to  get  nearer." 

"  What  was  that  story  I  heard  once,  five  years  ago,  about  a 
broken  engagement  ?  Wasn't  Thetford  of  that  ilk  hero  of 
the  tale?  The  romantic  Thetford,  who  resigned  his  title 
and  estate  to  a  mysteriously-found  elder  brother,  you  know. 
The  story  rang  through  the  papers  and  the  clubs  at  the 
time  like  wildfire,  and  set  the  whole  country  talking,  I 
remember.  She  was  engaged  to  him,  wasn't  she,  and 
broke  oflF?" 

"  So  goes  the  story — but  who  knows  ?  I  recollect  that 
odd  affair  perfectly  well ;  it  was  like  the  melo-dramas  on  the 
Surrey  side  of  the  Thames.  I  know  the  'mysteriously 
found  elder  brother,'  too — very  fine  fellow,  Sir  Guy  Thet- 
ford, and  married  to  the  prettiest  little  wife  the  sun  shines 
on.  I  must  say  Rupert  Thetford  behaved  wonderfully  well 
in  that  unpleasant  business  ;  very  few  men  would  do  as  he 
did — they  would,  at  least,  have  made  a  fight  for  the  title 
and  estates.  By-the-way,  I  wonder  what  ever  became  of 
him?" 

"  I  left  him  at  Sorrento,"  said  Stafford,  coolly. 

"  The  deuce  you  did  !    What  was  he  doing  there  ? " 

"  Raving  in  the  fever ;  so  the  people  told  me  with  whom 
he  stopped.     I  just  discovered  he  was  in  the  place  as  I  was 


372 


S/H  NOEL'S  HEIR. 


about  to  leave  it.  He  had  fallen  very  low,  I  fancy  ;  his 
pictures  didn't  sell,  I  suppose  ;  he  has  been  in  the  painting 
line  since  he  ceased  to  be  Sir  Rupert,  and  the  world  has 
gone  against  him.  Rather  hard  on  him  to  lose  fortune, 
title,  home,  bride,  and  all  at  one  fell  swoop."* 

"  And  so  you  left  him  ill  of  the  fever  ?    Poor  fellow  1 " 

"  Dangerously  ill." 

"  And  the  people  with  whom  he  is  will  take  very  little 
care  of  him.  He's  as  good  as  dead.  Let  us  go  in — I 
want  to  have  a  look  at  the  latest  English  papers." 

The  two  men  passed  in,  out  of  the  moonlight,  off  the 
piazza,  all  unconscious  that  they  had  had  a  listener.  The 
pale  watcher  in  the  trailing  black  robes  scarcely  heeding 
them  at  first,  had  grown  more  and  more  absorbed  in  the 
careless  conversation.  She  caught  her  breath  quick 
and  hard,  the  dark  eyes  dilated,  the  slender  hands  pressed 
tight  over  the  throbbing  heart.  As  they  went  in  off  the 
balcony,  she  slid  from  her  seat  and  held  up  her  clasped 
hands  to  the  luminous  night  sky. 

"  Here  me,  O  God  !  "  the  white  lips  cried.  "  I,  who 
have  aided  in  wrecking  a  noble  heart,  hear  me,  and  help  me 
to  keep  my  vow !  I  offer  my  whole  life  in  atonement  for 
the  cnael  and  wicked  past.  If  he  dies,  I  shall  go  to  my 
grave  his  unwedded  widow.    If  h«  lives — " 

Her  voice  faltered  and  died  out,  her  face  dropped  for- 
ward on  the  window-sill,  and  the  moonlight  fell  like  a  ben- 
ediction on  the  bowed  young  head. 


1 


fancy  ;  his 

le  painting 

world  has 

>e  fortune, 

•r  fellow  I" 

very  little 
s  go  in — I 

;ht,  oif  the 
jner.  The 
ily  heeding 
bed  in  the 
iath  quick 
ds  pressed 
in  off  the 
ler  clasped 

"I,  who 

nd  help  me 

nement  for 

go  to  my 

ropped  for- 
like  a  ben- 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


AT  SORRENTO. 


HE  low  light  in  the  western  sky  was  fading  out ; 
the  bay  of  Naples  lay  rosy  in  the  haze  of  the 
dying  day ;  the  soft,  sweet  wind  floated  over  the 

.^^^^ waters  ;  the  fishing  boats  were  coming  in  ;  and 

on  this  scene  an  invalid,  looking  from  a  window  high  up 
on  the  sea-washed  cliff  of  Sorrento,  gazed  languidly. 

For  he  was  surely  an  invalid  who  sat  in  that  window 
chair  and  gazed  at  the  wondrous  Italian  sea,  and  that  lovely 
Italian  sky.  Surely  an  invalid,  with  that  pallid  face,  those 
spectral,  hollow  eyes,  those  sunken  cheeks,  those  bloodless 
lips;  surely  an  invalid,  and  one  but  very  lately  risen  from 
the  very  gates  of  death,  a  pale  shadow,  worn  and  weak  as 

a  child. 

As  he  sits  there,  where  he  has  sat  for  hours,  lonely  and 
alone,  the  door  opens,  and  an  English  face  looks  in— the 
face  of  an  Englishman  of  the  lower  classes. 

«  A  visitor  for  you,  sir— just  come,  and  a-foot ;  a  lady, 
sir.  She  will  not  give  her  name,  but  wishes  to  see  you 
most  particular,  if  you  please." 

"  A  lady  !     To  see  me  ?  " 

The  invalid  opens  his  dark  eyes  in  wonder  as  he  speaks. 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  an  English  lady,  sir,  dressed  in  black,  and  a- 


Mi 


■■i 


374 


S//i  NOELS  HEIR. 


wearing  of  a  thick  veil.  She  asked  for  Mr.  Rupert  Thetford 
as  soon  as  she  see  me,  as  plain,  as  plain,  sir — " 

'I'hc  young  man.  in  the  chair  started,  half  rose,  and  then 
sunk  back  ;  an  eager  light  lit  in  the  hollow  eyes. 
**  Let  her  come  in,  I  will  see  her." 
The  man  disappeared  ;  there  was  an  instant's  pause,  then 
d  tall,  slender  figure,  draped  and  veiled  in  black,  entered 
alone. 

The  visitor  stood  still.     Once  more  the  invalid  attempt- 
ed to  rise,  once  more  his  strength  failed  him.     The  lady 
threw  back  her  veil  with  a  sudden  emotion. 
"  My  God,  Aileen  ! " 
"  Rupert  ! " 

She  was  on  her  knees  before  him,  lifting  her  suppliant 
hands. 

"  Forgive  me  !  forgive  me !  I  have  seemed  the  most 
heartless  and  cruel  of  women.  But  I  too,  hivye  suffered. 
I  am  base  and  unworthy  ;  but,  oh  !  forgive  me,*if  yoii  can." 
The  old  Kive,  stronger  then  death,  shone  in  her  eyes, 
plead  in  her  passionate,  sobbing  voice,  and  went  to  his 
very  heart. 

"  I  have  been  so  wretched,  so  wretched  all  these  mis- 
erable years.  While  my  father  lived,  I  would  not  dis. 
obey  his  stern  command,  that  I  was  never  to  attempt  to 
see  or  hear  from  you,  and  at  his  death  I  could  not.  You 
seemed  lost  to  me  and  to  the  world.  Only  by  the  merest 
accident  T  heard  in  Venice  you  were  here,  and  ill — dying. 
I  lost  no  time  ;  I  came  hither  at  once,  hoping  against  hope 
to  find  you  alive.  Thank  God  I  did  come.  O  Rupert  I 
for  the  sake  of  the  past  forgive  me." 

"  Forgive  you  !  and  he  tried  to  raise  her.  "  Alieen — dar- 
ling ! " 


ert  Thetford 

_>» 

se,  and  tlien 
es. 

pause,  then 
ack,  entered 

alid  attempt- 
The  lady 


ler  suppliant 

k1   the  most 

:v,ve  suffered. 

,  if  you  can." 

in  her  eyes, 

I  went  to  his 

II  these  mis- 
)uld  not  dis. 
:o  attempt  to 
d  not.  You 
•y  the  merest 
d  ill — dying, 
against  hope 

O  Rupert  I 

Alieen — dar- 


A  T  SOKRENTO. 


375 


His  weak  arms  encircled  her,  and  the  pale  lips  pressed 
passionate  kisses  on  the  tear-wet,  face. 

So  while  the  glory  of  the  sunset  lay  on  the  sea,  and 
until  the  stars  spangled  the  sky,  the  reunited  lovers 
sat  in  the  soft  haze,  as  Adam  and  Eve  may  have  sat  in  the 
loveliness  of  Eden. 

"  How  long  since  you  left  England  ?"  Rupert  asked,  at 
length. 

"  Two  years  ago ;  poor  papa  died  in  the  South  of  France 
— you  mustn't  blame  him  too  much,  Rupt^rt." 

"  My  dearest,  we  will  talk  of  blaming  no  one.  And  Guy 
and  May  are  married  ?    I  knew  they  would  be." 

"  Did  you  ?  I  was  so  surprised  when  I  read  it  in  the 
Times;  for  you  know  May  and  I  never  corresponded — she 
was  frantically  angry  with  me.  Do  they  know  you  are 
here  ? " 

"  No,  I  rarely  write,  and  I  am  constantly  moving  about ; 
but  I  know  that  Guy  is  very  much  beloved  in  St  Gosport. 
We  will  go  back  to  England,  one  of  these  days,  my  dar- 
ing, and  give  them  the  greatest  surprise  they  have  received 
since  Guy  Thetford  learned  who  he  really  was." 

He  smiled  as  he  said  it — the  old  bright  snule  she  re- 
membered so  well.  Tears  of  joy  filled  the  beautiful  up- 
turned eyes. 

"  And  you  will  go  back  ?  O  Rupert !  it  needed  but 
th's  to  complete  my  happiness." 

He  drew  her  closer,  and  then  there  was  a  long  delicious 
silence,  while  they  watched  together  the  late-rising  moon 
climbing  the  misty  hills  above  Castellamare. 


^^.^.  m^ 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


AT  HOME. 


NOTHER  sunset,  red  and  gorgeous,  over  swell- 
ing English  meadows,  waving  trees,  and  grassy 
terrace,  lighting  up  with  its  crimson  radiance 
the  gray  forest  of  Thetford  Towers. 

In  the  pretty,  airy  summer  drawing-room,  this  red  sun- 
set streams  through  open  western  windows,  kindling  every- 
thing into  living  light.  It  falls  on  the  bright-haired  girlish 
figure,  dressed  in  floating  white,  seated  in  an  arm-chair  in 
the  centre  of  the  room,  too  childish-lookihg,  you  might 
fancy,  at  first  sight,  to  be  mamma  to  that  fat  baby  she 
holds  in  her  lap  ;  but  she  is  not  a  bit  too  childish.  And 
that  is  papa,  tall  and  handsome,  and  happy,  who  leans 
over  the  chair  and  looks  as  men  do  look  on  what  is  the 
apple  of  their  eye,  and  the  pride  of  their  heart. 

"  It's  high  time  baby  was  christened,  Guy,"  Lady  Thet- 
ford— for,  of  course,  Lady  Thetford  it  is — was  saying  ; 
"  and,  do  you  know,  I  am  really  at  a  loss  for  a  name.  You 
won't  let  me  call  him  Guy,  and  I  sha'n't  call  him  Noel — 
and  so  what  is  it  to  be  ? " 

"  Rupert,  of  course,"  Sir  Guy  suggests  ;  and  little  Lady 
Thetford  pouts. 

"  He  does  not  deserve  the  compliment.  Shabby  fellow  I 
To  keep  wandering  about  the  world  as  he  does,  and  never 
to  answer  one's  letters ;  and  I  sent  him  half  a  ream  last 


20US,  over  swell- 
rees,  and  grassy 

iinson  radiance 
ivers. 

m,  this  red  sun- 
,  kindling  every- 
;ht-haired  girlish 

an  arm-chair  in 
tihg,  you  might 
lat  fat  baby  she 
I  childish.  And 
lappy,  who  leans 
k  on  what  is  the 
leart. 

ruy,"  Lady  Thet- 
is— was  saying  ; 
;or  a  name.  You 
call  him  Noel— 

;  and  little  Lady 

Shabby  fellow ! 

;  does,  and  never 

half  a  ream  last 


[ 


A  T  HOME. 


377 


time,  if  I  sent  him  a  sheet,  telling  all  about  baby,  and 
asking  him  to  come  and  be  godfather,  and  coaxing  him 
with  the  eloquence  of  a  female  Demos — ,  the  man  in  the 
tub  you  know.  And  to  think  it  should  be  all  of  no  use  I  To 
think  of  not  receiving  a  line  in  return.  It  is  using  me 
shamefully  ;  and  I  don't  believe  I  will  call  baby  Rupert." 

"  Oh,  yes  you  will,  my  dear  I  Well,  Smithcrs,  what  is 
it?" 

For  Mr.  Smithers,  the  butler,  stood  in  the  door-way, 
with  a  very  pale  and  startled  face. 

"  It's  a  gentleman — leastways  a  lady — leastways  a  Lidy 
and  gentleman.     Oh !  here  they  come  theirselves  !  " 

Mr.  Smithers  retired  precipitately,  still  pale  and  startled 
of  visage,  as  a  gentleman,  with  a  lady  on  his  arm,  stood 
before  Sir  Guy  and  Lady  Thetford. 

There  was  a  half  shout  from  the  young  baronet,  a  wild 
shriek  from  the  young  lady.  She  sprung  to  her  feet,  and 
nearly  dropped  the  precious  baby. 

"Rupert I    Ailetn!" 

She  never  got  any  further — this  impetuous  little  Lady 
Thetford,  for  she  was  kissing  first  one,  then  the  other, 
crying  and  laughing,  and  talking  all  in  a  breath. 

"  Oh  I  what  a  surprise  this  is  !  Rupert  my  dear,  my  dear, 
I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  again  I  O  Aileen  !  I  never,  never 
hoped  for  this  1  Guy,  O  Guy,  to  think  it  should  all  come 
rip'ht  at  last  I  " 

But  Guy  was  wringing  his  brother's  hand,  with  bright 
tears  standing  in  his  eyes,  and  quite  unable  to  reply. 

"  And  this  is  the  baby.  May  ?  The  wonderful  baby  you 
wrote  me  so  much  about,"  Mr.  Rupert  Thetford  said. 
"  A  noble  little  fellow,  upon  my  word ;  and  a  Thetford 
from  top  to  toe.   Am  I  in  season  to  be  godfather  ? " 


i 


/--. 


378 


S/Ji  NOEL'S  HEIR. 


"  Just  in  season.  The  name  was  to  have  been  Rupert 
in  any  case,  but  a  moment  ago  I  was  scolding  frightfully, 
becaus'j  you  h«id  not  answered  my  letter,  little  dreaming 
you  were  coming  to  answer  in  person.  And  Ailecn  too  ! 
Oh !  my  dear,  may  dear,  sit  down  at  once  and  tell  me  all 
about  it." 

Mrs.  Thetford  smiles  at  the  old  impetuosity,  and  in  very 
few  words  tells  the  story  of  the  meeting  and  the  marriage. 

"Of  course  you  remain  in  England?"  Sir  Guy  eagerly 
asked,  when  he  had  heard  the  brief  rtsiime  of  those  past 
five  years.  "  Of  course  Jocyln  Hall  is  to  be  head-quarters 
and  home  ?  "* 

"  Yes,"  Rupert  says,  his  eyes  for  a  moment  lingering 
lovingly  on  his  wife,  "Jocyln  Hall  is  home.  We  have  not 
yet  been  there ;  we  came  at  once  here  to  see  the  most 
wonderful  baby  of  modern  times — my  handsome  little 
namesake." 

"  It  is  just  like  a  fairy  tale,"  is  all  Lady  Thetford  can 
say  then ;  but  late  that  night,  when  the  reunited  friends 
were  in  their  chambers,  she  lifted  her  golden  head  off  the 
pillow,  and  looked  at  her  husband  entering  the  room. 
"  It's  so  very  odd,  Guy,"  slowly  and  drowsily,  "  to  think 
that,  after  all,  a  Rupert  Thetford  should  be  Sir  Noel's 
Heir." 


ve  been  Rupert 
ding  frightfully, 

little  dreaming 
md  Aileen  too  ! 

and  tell  me  all 

isity,  and  in  veiy 
id  the  marriage. 
Sir  Guy  eagerly 
ni  of  those  past 
be  head-quarters 

lomcnt  lingering 
We  have  not 
most 
little 


to  see  the 
handsome 


iy  Thetford  can 
reunited  friends 
Iden  head  off  the 
ering  the  room. 
•wsily,  "to  think 
d  be  Sir  Noel's 


A  DARK  CONSPIRACY. 


|N  love  with  her — /  want  to  marry  her !  "  cried 
Tom  Maxwell  in  a  fine  fury.  "  I  tell  you  I 
hate  her,  and  I  hope  she  may  die  a  miserable, 
disappointed,  cantankerous  old  maid  !  " 
Striding  up  and  down  the  floor,  his  face  flaming,  his 
eyes  flashing,  his  very  coat-tail  quivering  with  rage — a 
Bengal  tiger,  robbed  of  her  young,  could  not  have  looked 
a  much  more  ferocious  object.  And  yet  ferocity  was  not 
natural  to  Tom  Maxwell — handsome  Tom,  whose  years 
were  only  two-and-twenty,  and  who  was  hot-headed  and 
fiery,  and  impetuous  as  it  is  in  the  nature  of  two-and-twenty 
to  be,  but  by  no  means  innately  savage.  But  he  had  just 
been  jilted,  jilted  in  cold  blood  ;  so  up  and  down  he  strode, 
grMuling  his  teeth  vindictively,  and  fulminating  anathema 
maranathas  against  his  fair  deceiver. 

"  The  miserable,  heartless  jilt !  The  deceitful,  shame- 
less coquette  1  "  burst  out  Tom,  ferociously.  "  She  gave 
me  every  encouragement  that  a  woman  could  give,  until 
she  drew  me  on  by  her  abominable  wiles  to  make  a  fool 
of  myself ;  and  then  she  turns  round  and  smiles  and  puts 


38o 


A  DARK  COASr/A'ACi: 


her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes  and  is 'very  sorry,'  "miniirkiiif^ 
the  feminine  intonation,"  '  and  never  dreamed  of  such  a 
thing,  and  wilF  be  very  happy  to  be  my  friend  ;  but  for 
anything  further — oh!  dear,  Mr.  Maxwell,  pray  don't  think 
of  it  I '  Confound  her  and  the  whole  treacherous  sex  to 
which  she  belongs  1  But  I'm  not  done  with  her  yet  I  I'll 
have  revenge  as  sure  as  my  name  is  Tom  Maxwell  I " 

"  As  how?"  asked  a  lazy  voice  from  the  sofa.  "  She's 
a  woman,  you  know.  Ueing  a  woman,  you  can't  very  well 
call  her  out  and  shoot  hor,  or  horsewhip  her,  or  even  knock 
her  down.  A  fellow  may  feel  like  that — I  often  have  my- 
self, after  being  jilted  ;  but  still  it  can't  be  did.  It's  an 
absurd  law,  I  allow,  this  polite  exemption  of  womankind 
from  condign  and  just  punishment ;  but  it  is  too  late  in 
the  day  for  chaps  like  you  and  me  to  go  tilt  against 
popular  prejudices." 

It  was  a  long  speech  for  Paul  Warden,  who  was  far  too 
indolent  generally  to  get  beyond  monosyllables.  He  lay 
stretched  at  full  length  on  the  sofa,  languidly  smoking  the 
brownest  of  meerschaums,  and  dreamily  watching  the 
smoke  curl  and  wreath  around  his  head.  A  genial,  good- 
looking  fellow,  five  years  Tom's  senior,  and  remarkably 
clever  in  his  profession,  the  law,  when  not  too  lazy  to  ex- 
ercise it. 

Tom  Maxwell  paused  in  his  excited  striding  to  look  in 
astonishment  at  the  speaker. 

"  You  jilted  1 "  he  said,  "  You  1  Yon,  Paul  Warden, 
the  irresistible ! " 

"  Even  so,  mon  ami.  Like  measles,  and  mumps,  and 
tooth-cutting,  it's  something  a  man  has  to  go  through,  willy 
nilly.  I've  been  jilted  and  heart-broken  some  half-dozen 
times,  more  or  less,  and  here  I  am  to-night  not  a  ha'penny 


■ry,'  "niiiniikiii}* 

lined  of  siicli  » 

riciid  ;  but  for 

iray  don't  think 

acherous  sex  to 

th  her  yet  I     I'll 

Maxwell  I " 

e  sofa.     "  She's 

1  can't  very  well 

T,  or  even  knock 

I  often  have  my- 

bc  did.     It's  an 

1  of  womankind 

it  is  too  late  in 

go  tilt  against 

who  was  far  too 

^llables.     He  lay 

idly  smoking  the 

ly   watching  the 

A  genial,  good- 

and  remarkably 
ot  too  lazy  to  ex- 
riding  to  look  in 
I,  Paul  Warden, 

ind  mumps,  and 
go  through,  willy 
some  half-dozen 
It  not  a  ha'penny 


I 


A  DARK  CONSPIRACY. 


381 


the  worse  for  it.  So  go  it,  Tom  my  boy  1  The  more  you 
rant  and  rave  now,  the  sooner  the  pain  will  be  over.  It's 
notiiing  when  you're  used  to  it.  By-thc-way,"  turning  his 
indolent  eyes  slowly,  "  is  she  pretty,  Tom  ?  " 

"  Of  course  !  "  said  Tom,  indignantly.  "  What  do  you 
take  me  for  ?  Pretty  1  She's  beautiful,  she's  fascinating. 
Oh,  Warden  I  it  drives  me  mad  to  think  of  it  1  " 

"She's  all  my  fancy  painted  her— she's  lovely,  she's 
divine,"  quoted  Mr.  Warden  ;  "  but  her  heart,  it  is  an- 
other's, and  it  ivevcr —    What's  her  name,  Tom  ?  " 

"  Fanny  Summers.  If  you  had  been  in  this  place  four- 
and-twenty  hours,  you  wojld  have  no  need  to  ask.  Half 
the  men  in  town  are  spooney  about  her." 

"  Fanny.  Ah  !  a  very  bad  omen.  Never  knew  a  Fanny 
yet  who  wasn't  a  natural  born  flirt.  What's  the  style^ 
dark  or  fair,  belle  blonde,  ox  jolie  brunette? " 

"  Hrunette  ;  dark,  bright,  sparkling,  saucy,  piquant  irre- 
sistible !  Oh  !  "  cried  Tom,  with  a  dismal  groan,  sinking 
into  a  chair,  "  it  is  too  bad,  too  bad  to  be  treated  so  ! " 

"  So  it  is,  my  poor  Tom.  She  deserved  the  bastinado, 
the  wicked  witch.  The  bastinado  not  being  practicable, 
let  us  think  of  something  else.  She  deserves  punishment, 
and  she  shall  have  it ;  paid  back  in  her  own  coin,  and 
with  interest,  too.     Eh  ?    Well  ? " 

For  Tom  had  started  up  in  his  chair,  violently  excited 
aiid  red  in  the  face. 

"The  very  thing!"  cried  Tom.  "I  have  it  I  She 
shall  be  paid  in  her  own  coin,  and  I'll  have  most  glorious 
.evenge,  if  you'll  only  help  me,  Paul." 

"  To  my  last  breath,  Tom ;  only  don't  malce  so  much 
noise.  Hand  me  the  match-box,  my  pipe's  gone  out. 
Now,  what  is  it  ? " 


^ 


382 


A   DARK  CONSPIRACY. 


i 

I 


'    * 


"  Paul,  they  call  you  irresistible — the  women  do." 

"  Do  they  ?    Very  polite  of  them.     Well .' " 

"  Well,  being  irresistible,  why  can't  you  make  love  to 
Fanny  Summers,  talk  her  into  a  desperate  attachment  to 
you,  and  then  treat  her  as  she  has  treated  me — ^jilt  her  ?  " 

Paul  Warden  opened  his  large,  dreamy  eyes  to  their 
widest,  and  fixed  them  on  his  excited  young  friend. 

"  Do  you  mean  it,  Tom  ? " 

"  Never  meant  anything  more  in  my  life,  Paul." 

"  But  supposing  I  could  do  it ;  supposing  I  am  the 
irresistible  conqueror  you  gallantly  mnke  me  out ;  suppos- 
ing I  could  talk  the  charming  Fanny  into  that  deplorable 
attachment — it  seems  a  shame,  doesn't  it.'  " 

"A  shame  !"  exclaimed  poor  Tom,  smarting  under  a  sense 
of  his  own  recent  wrong  ;  "  and  what  do  you  call  her  con- 
duct to  me  i  It's  a  poor  rule  that  won't  work  both  ways. 
Let  her  have  it  herself,  hot  and  strong,-'and  see  how  she 
likes  it — she's  earned  it  richly.  You  can  do  it,  I  know, 
Paul ;  you  have  a  way  with  you  among  women.  I  don't 
understand  it  myself,  but  I  see  it  takes.  You  can  do  it, 
and  you're  no  friend  of  mine.  Warden,  if  you  don't." 

"  Do  it !  My  dear  fellow,  what  wouldn't  I  do  to  oblige 
you ;  break  fifty  hearts,  if  you  asked  me.  Here's  my 
hand — it's  a  go." 

"  And  you'll  flirt  with  her,  and  jilt  her  ? " 

"  With  the  help  of  the  gods.  Let  the  campaign  begin 
at  once,  let  me  see  my  fair,  future  victim  to-night." 

"  But  you'll  be  careful,  Paul,"  said  Tom,  cooling  down 
as  his  friend  warmed  up.  "  She's  very  pretty,  uncom- 
monly pretty ;  you've  no  idea  how  pretty,  and  she  may 
turn  the  tables  and  subjugate  you,  instead  of  you  subjuga- 
ting her." 


^ 


romen  do." 

11?" 

DU  make  love  to 

Lte  attachment  to 

1  me— jilt  her  ?  " 

my  eyes  to  their 

mg  friend. 

e,  Paul." 

posing  I  am  the 
:  me  out ;  suppos- 
:o  that  deplorable 
t?" 

rting  under  a  sense 
)  you  call  her  con- 
t  work  both  ways, 
-'and  see  how  she 
:an  do  it,  I  know, 
'f  women.  I  don't 
s.  You  can  do  it, 
f  you  don't." 
dn't  I  do  to  oblige 
.  me.    Here's  my 

:r?" 

he  campaign  begin 

m  to-night." 

rom,  cooling  down 

ery  pretty,  uncom- 

etty,  and  she  may 

lad  of  you  subjuga- 


A  DARK  CONSPIRACY. 


383 


"  The  old  story  of  the  minister  who  went  to  Rome  to 
convert  the  Pope,  and  returned  a  red-hot  Catholic.  Not 
any  thanks.  My  heart  is  iron-clad  ;  has  stood  too  many 
sieges  to  yield  to  any  little  flirting  brunette.  Forewarned 
is  forearmed.  Come  on,  old  fellow,"  rising  from  his  sofa. 
"  *  if  'tis  done,  when  it  is  done,  'twere  well  'twere  done 
quickly.' " 

"  How  goes  the  night  ? "  said  Toir.,  looking  out ;  "  it's 
raining.     Do  you  mind  ?  " 

"  Shouldn't  mind  if  it  rained  pitchforks  in  so  good  a 
cause.  Get  your  overcoat  and  come.  I  think  those  old 
chaps— what-do-you-call-'em.  Crusaders?  must  have  felt 
as  I  do  now,  when  they  marched  to  take  Jerusalem. 
Where  are  we  to  find  /a  belle  Fanny  ?  " 

"At  her  sister's,  Mrs.  Walters,  she's  only  here  on  a 
visit ;  but  during  her  five  weeks'  stay  she  has  turned  five 
dozen  heads,  and  refused  five  dozen  hands,  my  own  the 
last,"  said  Tom,  with  a  groan. 

"Never  mind,  Tom;  there  is  balm  in  Gilead  yet. 
Revenge  is  sweet,  you  know,  and  you  shall  taste  its  sweets 
before  the  moon  wanes.  Now  then,  Miss  Fanny,  the  con- 
quering hero  comes  I " 

The  t\vo  young  men  sallied  forth  into  the  rainy,  lamp- 
lit  streets.  A  passing  omnibus  took  them  to  the  home  of 
the  coquettish  Fanny,  and  Tom  rang  the  bell  with  vindic- 
ti''e  emphasis. 

"  Won't  she  rather  wonder  to  see  you,  after  refusing 
you  ? "  inquired  Mr.  Warden,  whilst  they  waited. 

"  What  do  I  care  I  "  responded  Mr.  Maxwell,  moodily  ; 
"  her  opinion  is  of  no  consequence  to  me  now!" 

Mrs.  Walters,  a  handsome,  agreeable-looking  young  ma- 
tron, welcomed  Tom  with  a  cordial  shake  of  the  hand, 


f ; 


384 


A   DARK  CONSPIRACY. 


1 1 


4^ 


I 


and  acknowledged  Mr.  Warden's  bow  by  the  brightest  of 
smiles,  as  they  were  ushered  into  the  family  parlor. 

"  We  are  quite  alone,  this  rainy  night,  my  sister  and  I," 
she  said.  "  Mr.  Walters  is  out  of  town  for  a  day  or  two. 
Fanny,  my  dear,  Mr.  Warden  ;  my  sister,  Miss  Summers, 
Mr.  Warden." 

It  was  a  pretty,  cozy  room,  "  curtai;  cd,  and  close,  and 
warm  ;"  and  directly  under  the  gas-light,  reading  a  lady's 
magazine,  sat  one  of  the  prettiest  girls  it  had  ever  been 
Mr.  Warden's  good  fortune  to  see,  and  who  welcomed 
him  with  a  brilliant  smile. 

"  Black  eyes,  jetty  ringlets,  rosy  cheeks,  alabaster  brow," 
thought  Mr.  Warden,  taking  stock ;  "  the  smile  of  an 
angel, ..  nd  dressed  to  perfection.  Poor  Tom  1  he's  to  be 
pitied.  Really,  I  haven't  come  across  anything  so  much 
to  my  taste  this  month  of  Sundays." 

Down  sat  Mr.  Paul  Warden  beside  thp  adorable  Fanny, 
plunging  into  conversation  at  once  with  an  ease  and 
fluency  that  completely  took  away  Tom's  breath.  That 
despondent  wooer  on  the  sofa,  beside  Mrs.  Walters,  pulled 
dejectedly  at  the  ears  of  her  little  black-and-tan  terrier, 
and  answered  at  random  all  the  pleasant  things  she  said 
to  him.  He  was  listening,  poor  fellow,  to  that  brilliant 
flow  of  small  talk  from  the  mustached  lips  of  his  dashing 
friend,  and  wishing  the  gods  had  gifted  him  with  a  similar 
"gift  of  the  gab,"  and  feeling  miserably  jealous  already. 
He  had  prepared  the  rack  for  himself  with  his  eyes  wide 
open  ;  but  that  made  the  torture  none  the  less  when  the 
machinery  got  in  motion.  Pretty  Fanny  snubbed  him 
incontinently,  and  was  just  as  bewitching  as  she  knew 
how  to  his  friend.  It  was  a  clear  case  of  diamond  cut 
diamond — two  flirts  pitted  against  each  other ;  and  an 


the  brightest  of 
nily  parlor, 
my  sister  and  I," 
for  a  day  or  two. 
tr,  Miss  Summers, 

jd,  and  close,  and 

It,  reading  a  lady's 

it  had  ever  been 

nd  who  welcomed 

:s,  alabaster  brow," 
"  the  smile  of  an 

)r  Tom  1  he's  to  be 
anything  so  much 

hp  adorable  Fanny, 
with  an  ease  and 
im's  breath.  That 
^rs.  Walters,  pulled 
lack-and-tan  terrier, 
;ant  things  she  said 
iw,  to  that  brilliant 
I  lips  of  his  dashing 
i  him  with  a  similar 
t)ly  jealous  already. 
E  with  his  eyes  wide 
;  the  less  when  the 
•"anny  snubbed  him 
ching  as  she  knew 
ase  of  diamond  cut 
lach  other;  and  an 


A  DARK  CONSPIRACY. 


385 


outsider  would  have  been  considerably  puzzled  on  which 
to  bet,  both  being  so  evenly  matched. 

Tom  listened,  and  sulked  ;  yes,  sulked.  What  a  lot  of 
things  they  fo.und  to  talk  about,  where  he  used  to  be  tongue- 
tied.  The  magazine,  the  faijhion-plates,  the  stories ; 
then  a  wild  launch  into  literature,  novels,  authors,  poets  ; 
then  the  weather  ;  then  Mr.  Warden  was  travelling,  and 
relating  his  "hair-breadth  escapes  by  flood  and  field," 
while  bright-eyed  Fanny  listened  in  breathless  interest. 
Then  the  open  piano  caught  the  irresistible  Paul's  eyes,  and 
in  a  twinkling  there  was  Fanny  seated  at  it,  her  white  fin- 
gers flying  over  the  polished  keys,  and  he  bending  above 
her  with  an  entranced  face.  Then  he  was  singing  a  de- 
lightful love-song  in  a  melodious  tenor  voire,  that  might 
have  captivated  any  heart  that  ever  beat  inside  ot  lace  and 
nnislin  ;  and  then  Fanny  was  singing  a  sort  of  response,  it 
seemed  to  frantically  jealous  Tom ;  and  then  it  was  eleven 
o'clock,  and  time  to  go  home. 

Out  in  the  open  air,  with  the  rainy  night  wind  blowing 
bleakly,  Tom  lifted  his  h.it  to  let  the  cold  blast  cool  his 
hot  face.  He  was  sulky  still,  and  silent — very  silent;  but 
Mr.  Warden  didn't  seem  to  mind. 

"So,"  he  said,  lighting  a  cigar,  "the  campaign  has  be- 
gim,  the  first  blow  has  been  struck,  the  enemy's  ramparts 
undermined.  Upon  my  word,  Tom,  the  little  cirl  is  un- 
commonly pretty  ! " 

"  I  told  you  so,"  said  Tom,  with  a  sort  of  growl. 

"  And  remarkably  agreeable.  I  don't  think  I  ever  spent 
a  pleasanter  tete-h-tctc  evening." 

"So  I  should  judge.  She  had  eyes,  a,nd  ears,  and 
tongue  for  no  one  but  you." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  it's  not  possible  you're  jealous  I  Isn't 


1 


Htr' 


386 


A  DARK  CONSPIRACY. 


III 


that  what  you  wanted  ?  Besides,  there  is  no  reason,  really  ; 
she  is  a  professional  flirt,  and  understands  her  business  ; 
you  and  I  kno\v  just  how  much  value  to  put  on  all  that 
sweetness.  Have  a  cigar,  iny  dear  boy,  and  keep  up  your 
heart ;  we'll  fix  the  flirting  Fanny  yet,  please  the  pigs  I  " 

This  was  all  very  true;  but, somehow,  it  wasn't  conso-^ 
ling.  She  was  nothing  to  him,  Tom,  of  course — and  he 
hated  her  as  hotly  as  ever ;  but,  somehow,  his  thirst  for 
vengeance  had  considerably  cooled  down.  The  cure  was 
worse  than  the  disease.  It  was  maddening  to  a  young  man 
in  his  frame  of  mind  to  see  those  brilliant  smiles,  those  en- 
trancing glances,  all  those  pretty,  coquettish,  womanly, 
wiles  that  had  deluded  him  showered  upon  another,  even 
for  that  other's  delusion.  Tom  wished  he  had  never  thought 
of  revenge,  at  least  with  Paul  Warden  for  his  handsome 
agent. 

"  Are  you  going  there  again  ? "  he  asked,  moodily. 

•*  Of  course,"  replied  Mr.  Warden,  aiiily.  "  What  a 
question,  old  fellow,  from  you  of  all  people.  Didn't  you 
hear  the  little  darling  telling  me  to  call  again  ?  She  over- 
looked you  completely,  by-the-by.  I'm  going  again,  and 
again,  and  yet  again^  until  my  friend,  my  fides  Achates,  is 
avenged." 

"  Ah  ! "  said  Tom,  sulkily,  "  but  I  don't  know  that  I 
care  so  much  for  vengeance  as  I  did.  Second  thoughts 
arc  best  ;  and  it  struck  me,  whilst  I  watched  you  both  to- 
night, that  it  was  mean  and  underhand  to  plot  against  a 
woman  like  this.  You  thought  so  yourself  at  first,  you 
know." 

"  Did  I  ?  I  forget.  Well,  I  think  differently  now,  my 
dear  Tom  ;  and  as  you  remark,  second  thoughts  are  best. 
My  honor  is  at  stake  j  so  put  your  conscientious  scruples 


^ 


reason,  really ; 

her  business ; 
put  on  all  that 
id  keep  up  your 
ise  the  pigs  1  " 
t  wasn't  consO'J 
course — and  he 
w,  his  thirst  for 
The  cure  was 
to  a  young  man 
smiles,  those  en- 
jttish,   womanly, 
)n  another,  even 
ad  never  thought 
>r  his  handsome 

d,  moodily. 
iH-ily.     "What  a 
pie.     Didn't  you 
gain  ?     She  over- 
going again,  and 

fides  Achates,  is 

)n't  know  that  I 
Second  thoughts 
;hed  you  both  to- 
to  plot  against  a 
self  at  first,  you 

ferently  now,  my 
thoughts  are  best, 
cientious  scruples 


A  DARK  CONSPIRACY. 


387 


in  your  pocket,  for  I  shall  conquer  the  fascinating  Fanny, 
or  perish  in  the  attempt.  Here  we  are  at  my  boarding- 
house — won't  you  come  in  ?  No.  Well,  then,  good-night. 
By-the-way,  I  shall  be  at  the  enemy's  quarters  to-morrow 
evening  ;  if  you  wish  to  see  how  ably  I  fight  your  battles, 
show  yourself  before  nine,    By-by  !  " 

Mr.  Maxwell's  answer  was  a  deeply  bass  growl  as  he 
plodded  on  his  way  ;  and  Paul  Warden,  running  up  to  his 
room,  laughed  lightly  to  himself. 

"  Poor  Tom  !  Poor,  dear  boy  !  Jealousy  is  a  green-eyed 
lobster,  and  he's  a  prey  to  it — the  worst  kind.  Really, 
Paul,  my  son,  little  black  eyes  is  the  most  bewitching  piece 
of  calico  you  have  met  in  your  travels  lately  ;  and  if  you 
wanted  a  wife,  which  you  don't,  you  couldn't  do  better 
than  go  in  and  win.  As  it  is — Ah !  it's  a  pity  for  the 
little  dear's  sake  you  can't  marry." 

With  which  Mr.  Warden  disrobed  and  went  to  bed. 

Next  evening,  at  half-past  eight,  Tom  Maxwell  made 
Us  appearance  at  Mrs.  Walters,  only  to  find  \i\%  fides  Acha- 
ies  there  enthroned  before  him,  and  basking  in  the  sun 
shine  of  the  lovely  Fanny's  smiles.  How  long  he  had 
been  there  Tom  couldn't  guess ;  but  he  and  Fanny  and 
Mrs.  Walters  were  just  settling  it  to  go  to  the  theatre  the 
following  night.  There  was  a  bunch  of  roses,  pink-and- 
white,  his  gift,  Tom  felt  in  his  bones,  in  Fanny's  hand, 
and  into  which  she  plunged  her  pretty  little  nose  every 
five  seconds.  It  was  adding  insult  to  injury,  the  manifest 
delight  that  aggravating  girl  felt  in  his  friend's  society ; 
and  Tom  ground  his  teeth  inwardly,  and  could  have  seen 
Paul  Warden  guillotined,  there  and  then,  with  all  the 
pleasure  in  life. 

That  evening,  and  many  other  evenings  which  succeeded, 


I!  '1 


■  "} 


388 


A  DARK  CONSPIRACY. 


<:ii 


were  but  a  repetition  of  the  first.  An  easy  flow  of  delight- 
ful small  talk,  music,  singing,  and  reading  aloud.  Yes,  Paul 
Warden  read  aloud,  as  if  to  goad  that  unhappy  Tom  to 
open  madness,  in  the  most  musical  of  masculine  voices, 
out  of  little  blue-and-gold  books,  Tennyson,  and  Longfel- 
low, and  Owen  Meredith ;  and  Fanny  would  sit  in 
breathless  earnestness,  her  color  coming  and  going,  her 
breath  fluttering,  her  eyes  full  of  tears  as  often  as  not, 
fixed  on  Paul's  classic  profile.  Tom  didn't  burst  out 
openly — he  made  no  scene  ;  he  only  sat  and  glowered  in 
malignant  silence — and  that  is  saying  everything  for  his 
power  of  self-control. 

Two  months  passed ;  hot  weather  was  coming,  and 
Fanny  begun  to  talk  of  the  heat  and  the  dust  of  the  town  ; 
of  being  home-sick,  for  the  sight  of  green  fields,  new  milk, 
strawberry-patches,  new-laid  eggs,  and  pa  and  ma.  It  had 
been  a  very  delightful  two  months,  no  doubt ;  and  she 
had  enjoyed  Mr.  Warden's  society  very  much,  and  gone 
driving  and  walking  with  him,  and  let  him  take  her  to  the 
theatre,  and  the  opera,  and  played  for  him,  and  sung  for 
him,  and  danced  with  him,  and  accepted  his  bouquets,  and 
new  music,  and  blue-and-gold  books  ;  but,  for  all  that,  it  was 
evident  she  could  leave  him  and  go  home,  and  still  exist. 

"  It's  all  very  nice,"  Miss  Summers  had  said,  tossing 
back  her  black  ringlets ;  "  and  I  have  enjoyed  this  spring 
ever  so  much,  but  still  I'm  glad  to  get  home  again.  One 
grows  tired  of  balls,  and  parties,  and  the  theatre,  you  know, 
after  awhile,  Mr.  Warden  ;  ar  '.  1  am  only  a  little  country- 
girl,  and  I  shaH  be  just  as  glad  as  ever  for  a  romp  over  the 
meadows,  and  a  breezy  gallop  across  the  hills  once  more. 
If  you  or  Mr.  Maxwell,"  glancing  at  that  gloomy  youth 
sideways  out  of  her  curls,  "care   much  for  fishing,  and 


^ 


A  DARK  CONSPIRACY. 


389 


flow  of  del'ght- 
oud.  Yes,  Paul 
ihappy  Tom  to 

sculine  voices, 
,  and  Longfcl- 

would  sit  in 
and  going,  her 
s  often  as  not, 
idn't  burst  out 
id  glowered  in 
;rything  for  his 

xs  coming,  and 
List  of  the  town  ; 
fields,  new  milk, 
md  ma.  It  had 
loubt ;  and  she 
much,  and  gone 
1  take  her  to  the 
m,  and  sung  for 
lis  bouquets,  and 
or  all  that,  it  was 
,  and  still  exist, 
id  said,  tossing 
oyed  this  spring 
me  again.  One 
leatre,  you  know, 
1  a  little  country- 
r  a  romp  over  the 
hills  once  more, 
at  gloomy  youth 
for  fishing,  and 


come  up  our  way  any  time  this  summer,  I'll  try  and  treat 
you  as  well  as  you  have  treated  me." 

"  Hut  you  haven't  treated  us  well,  Miss  Fanny,"  Mr, 
Warden  said,  looking  unspeakoble  things.  "  You  take  oui 
hearts  by  storm,  and  then  break  them  ruthlessly  by  leaving 
us.     What  sort  of  treatment  do  you  call  that?  " 

Miss  Summers  only  laughed,  and  looked  saucy  \  and 
danced  away,  leaving  her  two  admirers  standing  tog>.lher 
out  in  the  cold. 

"Well,  Tom,"  Mr.  Warden  said,  "and  so  the  game's  up, 
the  play  played  out,  the  curtain  ready  to  fall  Tiie  star 
actress  departs  to-morrow— and  now,  what  do  you  think  of 
the  performance  ? " 

"  Not  much,"  responded  Tom,  moodily.  "  I  can't  see 
that  you  have  kept  your  promise.  You've  made  love  to 
her,  I  allow,  con  amore,  confoundedly  as  if  you  meant  it, 
in  fact ;  but  I  don't  see  where  the  jilting  comes  in  ;  I  can't 
see  Where's  my  revenge." 

"  Don't  you  ? "  said  Paul,  thoughtfully  lighting  his  cigar. 
"Well,  come  to  think  of  it,  I  don't  either.  To  tell  you  the 
truth,  I  haven't  had  a  chance  to  jilt  her.  I  may  be  irresist- 
ible, and  I  have  no  doubt  I  am,  since  you  say  so  ;  but, 
somehow,  the  charm  don't  seem  to  work  with  our  little 
favorite.  Here  I  have  been  for  the  last  two  months  just 
as  captivating  as  I  know  how ;  and  yet  there's  that  girl 
re.-idy  to  be  off  to-morrow  to  the  country,  without  so  much 
as  a  crack  in  the  heart  that  should  be  broken  in  smither- 
eens. But  still,"  with  a  sudden  change  of  voice,  and 
slapping  him  lightly  on  the  shoulder,  "dear  old  boy,  I 
don't  despair  of  givmg  you  your  revenge,  yet !  " 

Tom  lifted  his  gloomy  eyes  in  sullen  inquiry. 

"Never  mind  now,"   said  Paul  Warden,  airily;  "give 


390 


A  DARK  CONSPIRACY. 


me  a  few  weeks  longer.  Lazy  as  I  am,  I  have  never 
failed  yet  in  anything  I  have  seriously  undertaken  ;  and, 
upon  my  word,  I'm  more  serious  about  this  matter  than 
you  may  believe.  Trust  to  your  friend,  and  wait." 
That  was  all  Mr.  Warden  would  deign  to  say. 
Tom,  not  being  able  to  do  otherwise,  took  him  at  his 
word,  dragged  out  existence,  and  waited  for  his  cherished 
revenge. 

Miss  Summers  left  town  next  day,  and  Tom,  poor,  mis- 
erable fellow,  felt  as  if  the  sun  had  ceased  to  shine,  and 
the  scheme  of  the  universe  become  a  wretched  failure, 
when  he  caught  the  last  glimmer  of  the  lustrous  black 
eyes,  the  last  flutter  of  the  pretty  black  curls.  But  his 
Damon  was  by  his  side  to  slap  him  on  the  back  and  cheer 
him  up. 

"  Courage,  old  fellow  !  "  cried  Mr.  Warden  ;  "  all's  not 
lost  that's  in  danger.  Turn  and  turn  about ;  your  turn 
next." 

But,  somehow,  Tom  didn't  care  for  revenge  any  more. 
He  loved  that  wicked,  jilting  little  Fanny  as  much  as  ever  ; 
and  the  heartache  only  grew  worse  day  after  day ;  but  he 
ceased  to  desire  vengeance.  He  settled  down  into  a  kind 
of  gentle  melancholy,  lost  his  appetite,  and  his  relish  for 
Tom  and  Jerrys,  and  took  to  writing  despondent  poetry 
for  the  weekly  journals.  In  this  state  Mr.  Warden  left 
him,  and  suddenly  disappeared  from  town.  Tom  didn't 
know  where  he  had  gone,  and  his  landlady  didn't  know  ; 
and  stranger  still,  his  bootmaker  and  tailor,  to  whom  he 
was  considerably  in  arrears,  didn't  know  either.  But  they 
were  soon  enlightened. 

Five  weeks  after  his  mysterious  disappearance  came  a 
letter  and  a  newspaper,  in  his  familiar  hand,  to  Tom,  while 


I  have  never 
clertaken  ;  and» 

is  matter  than 

wait." 

say. 

ook  him  at  his 
ar  his  cherished 

Tom,  poor,  mis- 
id  to  shine,  and 
i^retched  failure, 
;  Kistrous  black 
curls.  But  his 
back  and  cheer 

den  ;  "  all's  not 
)qut;  your  turn 

enge  any  more. 
s  much  as  ever ; 
ter  day ;  but  he 
lown  into  a  kind 
id  his  relish  for 
ipondent  poetry 
^r.  Warden  left 
n.  Tom  didn't 
dy  didn't  know  ; 
lor,  to  whom  he 
ither.     But  they 

earance  came  a 
d,  to  Tom,  while 


A  DARK  COXSr/KACV. 


391 


he  Bat  at  breakfast.     He  opened  the  letter  first  and 
read ; 

In  the  Country. 

"Dear  Old  Boy — I  hav*  kept  my  word — you  jre 
avenged  gloriously.  Fanny  will  never  jilt  you,  nor  any 
one  else  again  I  " 

At  this  passage  in  the  manuscript,  Tom  Maxwell  laid  it 
down,  the  cold  perspiration  breaking  out  on  his  face. 
Had  Paul  Warden  murdered  her,  or  worse,  had  he  mar- 
ried her  ?  With  a  desperate  clutch  Tom  seized  the  paper, 
tore  it  open,  looked  at  the  list  of  marriages,  and  saw  his 
worst  fears  realized.  There  it  was,  in  printers'  ink,  the 
atrocious  revelation  of  his  bosom  friend's  perfidy. 

"  Married,  on  the  fifth  inst.,  at  the  residence  of  the 
bride's  father,  Paul  Warden,  Esq.,  of  New  York  to  Miss 
Fanny  Summers,  second  daughter  of  Mr.  John  Summen?, 
of  this  town." 

There  it  was.  Tom  didn't  faint ;  he  swallowed  a  scald- 
ing cup  of  coffee  at  a  gulp,  and  re\  ived,  seized  the  letter 
and  finished  it. 

"  You  see,  old  fellow,  paradoxical  as  it  sounds,  aU'iough 
I  was  the  conqueror,  I  was,  also,  the  conquered.  Fanny 
had  fallen  in  love  with  me,  as  you  foresaw,  but  I  hi\d  fill- 
en  in  love  with  her  also,  which  you  didn't  foresee.  I 
might  jilt  her,  of  course,  but  that  would  be  cutting  off  my 
own  nose  to  spite  my  friend's  face  ;  and  so — I  didn''. !  I 
did  the  next  best  thing  for  you,  though, — I  married  her  ; 


rli 


ll 


392 


A  DARK  CONSPIRACY. 


and  I  may  mention,  in  parenthesis,  I  .im  the  happiest  of 
mankind  ;  and  as  Artemus  Ward  remarlcs,  '  My  wife  says 
so  too.' 

"  Adieu,  my  boy.  We'll  come  to  town  next  week,  where 
J'an  and  I  will  be  delighted  to  have  you  call.  With  best 
regards  from  my  dear  little  wife,  I  am,  old  fellow, 

"  Your  devoted  friend, 

"  Paul  Warden." 


Mr.  and  Mrs.  Warden  did  come  to  town  next  week  ;  but 
Mr.  Maxwell  didn't  call.  In  point  of  fact  he  hasn't  called 
since,  and  doesn't  intend  to,  and  has  given  his  friend 
I'aul  the  "  cut  direct."  And  that  is  how  Paul  Warden  got 
a  wife,  and  Tom  Maxwell  his  revenge. 


^ 


the  happiest  of 
'  My  wife  says 

lext  week,  where 
all.     With  best 
1  fellow, 
(i  friend, 
[JL  Warden." 

1  next  week  ;  but 

he  hasn't  called 

f^iven  his  friend 

L^uul  Warden  got 


FOR  BETTER  FOR  WORSE. 


NDall  is  gone?" 

"Why,  no,  sir;  no,  Mr.  Fletcher — not  all. 
There's  that  six  hundred  a  year,  and  that  little 
place  down  at  Dover,  that  you  settled  on  your 
wife  ;  you  will  save  that  out  of  the  wreck.  A  trifle — a  mere 
nothing,  I  am  aware,  out  of  such  a  noble  inheritance  as 
yours,  Mr.  Fletcher  —  but  still  something.  Half  a  loaf 
you  know,  sir,  is — " 

He  stopped  abruptly  at  a  motion  of  Richard  Fletcher's 
hand.  He  was  a  lawyer,  and  used  to  this  sort  of  thing ; 
jind  not  much  effected  by  the  story,  he  had  run  down  from 
New  York  to  tell  Mr.  Fletcher ;  his  rich  client  had  specu- 
lated rashly,  and  lost — a  common  case  enough.  A  week 
ago  he  was  worth  half  a  million  ;  to-night  he  is  not  worth 
a  sixpence — that  was  all.  There  were  his  wife's  settle- 
ments, of  course  ;  but  they  were  his  wife's — and  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Fletcher  were  two. 

"  I  thought  I  had  better  let  you  know  at  once,  Mr. 
Fletcher,"  the  lawyer  said  ;  "  it's  sure  to  be  in  everybody's 
mouth  tomorrow.     And  now,  if  I'm  to  catch  the  nine-tifty 


mmm 


394 


ro/i  nr.TTER  for  worse. 


' 


I. 


up-train,  I  had  better  be  starting.  Good-night,  sir.  Worso 
luck  now,  better  next  time." 

"  Good-night,"  Ricliard  Fletcher  said,  mechanically.  He 
was  leaning  against  the  low,  iron  gateway,  his  folded  arms 
lying  on  its  carved  top,  and  the  black  shadows  of  the 
beeches  shutting  him  in  like  a  pall.  Up  the  avenue  col- 
ored lanijjs  gleamed  along  the  chestnut  walks,  blue,  red, 
and  green,  turning  the  dark  Noveml)er  night  to  fairy-land. 
The  wide  froivt  of  the  stately  mansion  was  all  aglow  with 
illumin  ition,  with  music,  and  flowers,  and  fair  women  ; 
and  fairest,  where  all  were  fair,  its  proud  young  mistress, 
Marian  Fletcher. 

Two  men,  st  agglers  from  the  ball-room,  with  their  cigars 
lighted,  came  down  through  the  gloom,  close  to  the  motion- 
less figure  against  the  iron  gate — only  another  shadow 
among  the  shadows — so  close  that  he  heard  every  word. 

"Rather  superb  style  of  thing,  all  thjs,"  one  said. 
"  When  Dick  Fletcher  does  this  sort  of  thing,  he  does  do 
It.  Wonderful  luck  he's  had,  for  a  poor  devil,  whc  five 
years  ago  hadn't  a  rap  ;  and  that  wife  of  his — magnificent 
Marian — most  lovely  thing  the  sun  shines  on." 

"  Too  lovely,  my  friend,  for — she's  ice." 

"  Ah  !  To  her  husband  ?  Married  him  for  his  fortune, 
didn't  she  ?  The  old  story,  very  poor,  very  proud ;  and  sold 
to  the  highest  bidder.  Craymore  stood  to  win  there  once, 
didn't  he?" 

"It  was  a  desperate  flirtation  —  an  engagement,  the 
knowing  ones  do  say ;  but  Capt.  Craymore  knows  better 
than  to  indulge  in  such  a  luxury  as  a  penniless  wife.  So 
Fletcher  came  along,  made  rich  by  a  sudden  windfall,  and 
she's  Mrs.  Fletcher  to-night ;  and  more  beautiful  and 
queenly  than  ever.     I  watched  her  dancing  with  Craymore 


Iht,  sir.    Worse 

lianically.  He 
is  folded  arms 
ladows  of  the 
e  avenue  col- 
alks,  blue,  red, 
t  to  fairy-land, 
all  aglow  with 
fair  women  ; 
oung  mistress, 

ith  their  cigars 
to  the  motion- 
lothor  shadow 
!  every  word, 
lis,"  one  said. 
vf,  he  does  do 
devil,  whc  five 
s — magnificent 
m." 

for  his  fortune, 
roud;  and  sold 
win  there  once, 

gagement,  the 
knows  better 

less  wife.     So 

n  windfall,  and 
beautiful   and 

with  Crayinore 


rO/i  BETTER  FOR  WORSE. 


395 


half  an  hour  ago,  and  —  Well,  I  didn't  envy  Fletcher,  if 
he  is  worth  half  a  million.  Let's  go  back  to  the  house,  it's 
beginning  to  rain." 

"  Suppose  I'letchcr  were  to  lose  his  fortune — what 
then  ? " 

*'  My  good  fellow,  ho  would  lose  his  wife  in  the  same 
hour.  Some  women  there  are  who  would  go  with  their 
husbands  to  beggary — and  he's  a  fine  fellow,  too,  is  Fletch- 
er ;  but  not  the  lovely  Marian.     There,  the  rain  begins  1 " 

The  shadow  among  the  beeches  stood  stiller  than  stone. 
A  long,  low  wind  worried  the  trees,  and  the  rain  beat  its 
melancholy  drip,  drip.  Half  an  hour,  an  hour,  two,  passed, 
but  the  figure  leaning  against  the  iron-gate  was  as  still  as 
the  iron  itself.  Hut  slowly  he  stirred  at  last,  became  con- 
scious ho  was  dripping,  and  passed  slowly  out  of  the  rainy 
gloom,  and  up  the  lam  pi  it-avenue,  and  into  the  stately 
home,  that,  after  to-night,  would  be  his  no  more. 

Another  half-hour,  and- he  was  back  in  the  glitter  and 
dazzle  and  music  of  the  brilliant  suit  of  drawing-rooms,  his 
wet  garments  changed,  the  fixed  whiteness  of  his  face  tell- 
ing but  little  of  his  sudden  blow.  He  had  not  been  missed  ; 
his  radiant  three  months'  bride  shone  there  in  diamonds,  and 
laces,  and  roses  resplendent — and  who  was  to  think  of  the 
rich  Fletcher  I  "  Only  a  clod,"  whom  she  had  honored  by 
marrying.  Capt.  Craymore  was  by  her  side,  more  fascina- 
ting than  ever.  How  could  she  find  time  to  think  of  any 
one  so  plebeian  as  the  underbred  rich  man  she  had  mar- 
ried, by  his  entrancing  side  ? 

But  it  was  all  over  at  last.  The  "  lights  were  fled,  the 
garlands  dead,"  and  Mrs.  Fletcher  up  in  her  dressing-room, 
in  the  raw  morning  light,  was  imder  the  hands  of  her  maid. 
She  lay  back  among  the  violet-velvet  cushions,  languid  and 


^.flblBftiiitr.  'Jt*  nX..-iA-JL.-i 


iaiiifflx.:TWiri^ 


396 


FOJi  BETTER  FOR  WORSE. 


1.1,1 


\\ 


[HIi: 


lovely,  being  disrobed,  and  looked  round  with  an  irritated 
flush  at  the  abrupt  entrance  of  the  master  of  the  house 
He  did  not  often  intrude;  since  the  first  few  weeks  of 
their  marriage  he  had  been  a  model  husband,  and  kept  his 
place.     Therefore,  Mrs.  Fletcher  looked  surprised,  as  well 

as  annoyed  now.  ,  „    . 

"Do  you  wish  to  speak  to  me,  Mr.  Fletcher?  she 
asked  coldly ;  for  after  an  evening  with  Capt.  Craymore 
she  was  always  less  tolerant  of  her  bourgeois  husband. 

»  Yes— but  alone.  I  will  wait  in  your  sitting-room  until 
YOU  dismiss  your  maid." 

Something  in  his  colorless  face-something  in  the  sound 
of  his  voice  startled  her  ;  but  he  was  gone  while  yet  speak- 
ing and  the  maid  went  on.  "  Hurry,  Louise,"  her  mis- 
tress said,  briefly  ;  and  Louise  coiled  up  the  shining  hair, 
arranged  the  white  dressing-gown,  and  left  her. 

Marian  Fletcher  arose  and  swept  into  the  next  room 
It  was  the  daintiest  bijou  of  boudoirs,  all  rose-silk,  and 
silver,  and  filigree-work,  and  delicious  Greuze  paintings, 
smiling  down  from  the  fluted  panels.  A  bright  wood-fire 
'.urned  on  the  hearth,  and  her  husband  stood  agamst  the 
fow  chimney-piece,  whiter  and  colder  than  the  marble  itself. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  what  is  it  ? " 

He  looked  up.  She  stood  before  him  in  her  beauty  and 
her  pride,  jewels  flashed  on  her  fairy  hands— a  queen  by 
right  divine  of  her  azure  eyes  and  tinselled  hair— his,  yet 
not  his  ;  «  so  near,  and  yet  so  far."  He  loved  her,  how 
well  his  own  wrung  heart  only  knew. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  repeated,  impatiently.  "  I  am  tired 
and  sleepy.     Tell  me  in  a  word." 

"  I  can — ruin  1 " 

"  What  ?  " 


1 


E. 

ith  an  irritated 
r  of  the  house, 
few  weeks  of 
id,  and  kept  his 
irprised,  as  well 

Fletcher?"  she 
:apt.  Craymore 
's  husband, 
tting-room  until 

ing  in  the  sound 
while  yet  speak- 
ouise,"  her  mis- 
he  shining  hair, 
t  her. 

the  next  room. 
U  rose-silk,  and 
ireuze  paintings, 
bright  wood-fire 
stood  against  the 
the  marble  itself. 

in  her  beauty  and 
ids — a  queen  by 
ed  hair — his,  yet 
e  loved  her,  how 

ly.     "  I  am  tired 


FOR  BETTER  FOR  IIVRSE. 


397 


"  I  am  ruined.  All  is  gone.   I  am  a  beggar.  " 
She   started  back,  turning  whiter  than  her  dress,  and 
leaned  heavily  against  a  chair. 

"  Ruined !  "  she  repeated.  "  A  beggar  !  " 
"Ugly  words,  are  they  not?  but  quite  true.  I  did  not 
know  it  until  last  night ;  Kearstall  came  from  town  to  tell 
me.  My  last  grand  speculation  has  failed,  and  m  its 
failure  engulfed  everything.  I  am  as  poor  as  the  poorest 
laborer  on  this  estate  ;  poorer  than  I  was  five  years  ago, 
before  this  fortune  was  left  me." 

There  was  a  sort  of  savage  pleasure  in  thus  hideously 
pulling  things  in  their  ugliest  light.  Rich  or  poor,  she 
despised   him   alike.     What  need  was   there   for   him  to 

mince  matters  ? 

"  There  are  your  settlements,  your  six  hundred  a-year, 
and  the  Dover  farm,  that  crumb  of  the  loaf  is  left,  and 
remains  yours.  I  am  sorry  for  you,  Mrs.  Fletcher-sorry 
that  your  sacrifice  of  youth  and  loveliness,  on  the  altar  of 
Mammon,  has  been  in  vain.  I  had  hoped,  when  I  married 
you,  of  winning  some  return  for  the  limitless  love  1  gave 
you.  I  know  to-night  how  futile  that  hope  has  been. 
Once  again,  for  your  sake,  I  am  sorry  ;  for  myself  I  do 
not  care.  The  world  is  a  wide  place,  and  I  can  win  my 
way.  I  give  you  your  freedom,  the  only  reparation  for 
marrying  you  in  my  power  to  make.  I  leave  here  to-night  j 
New  York  to  morrow  ;  and  so — farewell !  " 

She  stood  like  a  stone  ;  he  turned  and  left  her.  Once 
she  had  made  a  movement,  seeing  the  white  anguish  of 
h;s  face,  as  though  to  go  to  him— but  she  did  not.  He 
was  gone,  and  she  dropped  down  in  ihe  rose-and-silver 
glitter  of  her  fairy-room,  as  miserable  a  woman  as  day 
t\  er  dawned  on. 


398 


FOR  BETTER  FOR  WORSE. 


A  month  later,  and  she  was  far  away,  buried  alive  in  the 
Dover  Cottage.  All  had  gone ;  the  nine  days  wonder 
was  at  an  end  ;  the  "  rich  Fletcher  "  and  his  handsome 
wife  had  disappeared  out  of  the  magic  whiri  of  society  ; 
and  society  got  on  very  well  without  them.  They  had 
been,  and  they  were  not— and  the  story  was  told.  Of  all 
who  had  broken  bread  with  the  ruined  man,  there  were  not 
two  who  cared  a  fillip  whether  he  were  living  or  dead. 

The  December  wind  wailed  over  the  stormy  sea,  and 
the  wintry  rain  lashed  the  windows  of  the  Dover  Cottage. 
Marian  Fletcher  sat  before  the  blazing  fire  in  a  long,  low, 
gloomy  parlor,  and  Capt.  Craymore  stood  before  her.  He 
had  but  just  found  her  out,  and  he  had  run  down  to  see 
how  she  bore  her  altered  fortunes.  She  bore  them  as  an 
uncrowned  queen  might,  with  legal  pride  and  cold  endur- 
ance. The  exquisile  face  had  lost  its  rose-leaf  bloom ; 
the  deep,  still  eyes  looked  larger  and  more  fathomless  ; 
the  mouth  was  set  in  patient  pain— that  was  all.  The 
man  felt  his  heart  burn  as  he  looked  at  her,  she  was  so 
lovely,  so  lovely.  He  leaned  over,  and  the  passionate 
words  came  that  he  could  not  cheek.  He  loved  her.  She 
loved  him  ;  she  was  forsaken   and  alone— why  need  they 

part  ? 

She  listened,  growing  whiter  than  a  dead  woman.  Then 
she  came  and  faced  him,  until  the  cowered  soul  within  him 
shrank  and  quailed. 

"I  have  fallen  very  low,"  she  said.  "I  am  poor,  and 
alone,  and  a  deserted  wife.  But  Capt.  Craymore,  I  have 
not  fallen  low  enough  to  be  your  mistress.     Go  !  " 

Her  unflickering  finger  pointed  to  the  door.  There  was 
that  in  her  face  no  man  dare  disobey,  and  he  slunk  forth 
like  a  whipped  hound.  Then  as  on  that  night  when  she  had 


RSE. 

buried  alive  in  the 
line  clays  wonder 
,nd  his  handsome 
;  whirl  of  society  ; 
them.  They  had 
was  told.  Of  all 
\an,  there  were  not 
living  or  dead, 
e  stormy  sea,  and 
ihe  Dover  Cottage, 
fire  in  a  long,  low, 
)d  before  her.     He 

1  run  down  to  see 

2  bore  them  as  an 
le  and  cold  endur- 
:s  rose-leaf  bloom ; 

more  fathomless  ; 
that  was  all.  The 
at  her,  she  was  so 
ind  the  passionate 
He  loved  her.  She 
ne — why  need  they 

lead  woman.  Then 
red  soul  within  him 

"  I  am  poor,  and 
t.  Craymore,  I  have 
iss.  Go  ! " 
e  door.  There  was 
and  he  slunk  forth 
night  when  she  had 


FOR  BETTER  FOR  WORSE. 


399 


parted  from  her  husband,  she  slipped  down  =nher  misery  to 
the  -round,  and  hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  Now  she  knew 
the  man  she  had  lovcd,  now  she  was  learning  to  know  the 
man  who  had  loved  her.  The  one  would  drag  her  down 
tc  bottomless  depths  of  blacknes^  and  infamy;  the  other 
had  given  up  all  for  her-even  herself-and  gone  orth  a 
homeless,  penniless  wanderer,  tof.ght  the  battle  of  l.fe. 

«  Oh  !  truest  and  noblest !  "  her  heart  cried,  in  its  pas- 
sionate pain,  "how  I  have  wronged  you!  Bravest  and  best 
heart  that  ever  beat  in  man's  breast-am  I  only  to  know 
vour  worth  when  it  is  too  late  ? " 

It  seemed  so.  Richard  Fletcher  had  disappeared  out 
of  the  world-the  world  she  knew-as  utterly  as  though 
he  had  never  been  in  it.  The  slow  months  dragged 
drearily  by;  but  he  never  came.  The  piteous  advertise- 
ment in  the  ^.mW  newspaper  stood  unanswered  when  the 
spring-buds  burst;  and  she  was  alone  in  her  worse  than 
widowhood,  in  the  Dover  Cottage  still. 

With  the  glory  of  the  brilliant  new  summer,  new  hope 
dawned  for  her.  A  tiny  messenger,  with  Richard  Fletchers 
great  brown  eyes,  smiled  up  in  her  face,  and  a  baby  head 
nestled  against  her  lonely  heart.  Ah !  she  knew  now  how 
she  loved  baby's  father,  when  the  brown  eyes,  of  which 
these  were  the  counterpart,  were  lost  to  her  forever. 

So  with  the  great  world  shut  out,  and  with  only  baby 
Rich'ard  and  her  two  servants,  life  went  on  in  the  solitary 
cottage  The  winds  of  winter  had  five  times  swept  over 
the  ceaseless  sea,  and  little  Richard  could  toddle  and  lisp  ; 
and  in  Marian  Fletcher's  hear^  hope  slowly  died  out. 
She  had  lost  him  through  her  own  fault-;  he,  to  whom 
she  had  been  bound  in  the  mysterious  tie  of  marnag.;, 
would  never  look  upon  her  cruel  face  again. 


ft 


FOR  BETTER  FOR  WORSE. 

She  sat  one  stormy  November  night,  thinking  very  sadly 
of  the  true  heart  and  strong  love  she  had  cast  away 
Her  boy  lay  asleep  before  the  ruddy  fire  ;  the  ra,n  and 
wind  beat  like  human  things  against  the  glass.  She  sat 
looking  seaward,  with  weary,  empty  eyes,  so  desolate-so 
desolate,  her  soul  crying  out  with  unutterable  yearning  for 
the  wanderer  to  come  back. 

As  she  stood  there  gazing  sadly  out  at  the  w.ld  n.gl  t 
fUling  over  the  wild  sea,  her  one  servant  came  hurriedly 
into  the  room  with  startled  affright  in  her  eyes 

"Oh,  ma'am,"  she  cried,  "such  a  dreadful  ihmg!  The 
up  train  from  New  York  has  had  an  accident,  has  fell  over 
the  embankment  just  below  here  and  half  the  passengers 
,.re  killed  and  wounded.  The  screams  as  I  ^a^e  past  was 
awful  to  hear.  Bu.  surely,  ma'a,n,"  the  woman  brok  off 
in  dismay  as  her  mistress  seized  her  hat  and  shawl,  you 
won't  go  out  and  it  raining  and  a  blowing  fit  to  take  j'ou  off 
your  feet.      You  can't   do   nothing,  and  you'll  get  your 

"^'ButMrs.  Fletcher  was  out  already,  heedless  of  wind  or 
rain  and  making  her  way  to  the  scene  of  the  accident. 
»Toor  souls,"  sh'e  was  thinking,  "so  sudden  and  fnghtfu 
a  fate  Perhaps  I  can  be  of  help  to  some  one.  Por  her 
Hfe  trouble  had  done  this  for  her;  made  her  tender  of 
heart  and  pitiful  of  soul  to  all  who  suffered. 

A  great  crowd  were  there  from  Dover  village  as  she 
drew  near,  beginning  to  bear  away  the  wounded,  the  dymg 
and  the  dead.  Groans  and  cries  of  infinite  --7 -^^e  the 
rainy  twilight  hideous.  Mrs.  Fletcher  shuddered,  but 
hTstorped' resolutely  over  a  man  who  lay  almost  at  her 
feet,  a  man  whom  she  mi.ht  have  though  dead  but  for  the 
low  moan  that  now  and  then  came  from  Ins  hps. 


-lis 


1 


OKSE. 

.thinking very  sadly 
lie  had  cast  away, 
fire  ;  the  rain  and 
the  glass.  She  sat 
yes,  so  desolate — so 
tcrable  yearning  for 

It  at  the  wild  night 
k^ant  came  hurriedly 
her  eyes. 

Ireadful  thing!  The 
ccident,  has  fell  over 

half  the  passengers 
IS  as  I  came  past  was 
the  woman  broke  off 
hat  and  shawl,  "  you 
■ing  fit  to  take  you  off 

and  you'll  get  your 

heedless  of  wind  or 

:ene  of  the  accident. 

sudden  and  frightful 

some  one."     For  her 

;  made  her  tender  of 

uffered. 

Dover  village  as  she 
lie  wounded,  the  dying 
nfinite  misery  made  the 
etcher  shuddered,  but 
who  lay  almost  at  her 
lought  dead  but  for  the 
[rom  his  lips. 


/••UR  BETTER  EOR  WORSE. 


401 


She  bent  above  him  timidly,  her  heart  fluttering  at 
something  vaguely  familiar  in  his  look. 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you?  "  she  asked,  "  1  fear  you 
are  very  very  badly  hurt."  . 

The  eyes  opened  j  in  the  dim  light  he  half  arose  on  his 
elbow.     "Marian,"   he   said,  and   fell  back  and  faulted 

wholly  away.  , 

And  so  her  prayers  were  answered  after  many  days,  and 
death  itself  seeme.l  to  have  given  back  her  husband  to 
Marian  Fletcher's  r.rms.  Over  his  pillow  life  and  Death 
fought  their  sharp  battle,  for  many  long  weeks,  while  she 
watched  over  him,  and  prayed  beside  him  in  what  agony 
of  remorse,  and  terror  and  passionate  tenderness  only 
Heaven  and  herself  ever  knew. 

Those  ceaseless,  agonized  prayers  prevailed.  In  the 
pale  dawn  of  a  Christmas  morning,  the  heavy  brown  eyes 
opened  and  fixed  upon  her  face,  no  longer  in  delirium,  but 
with   the    kindling   light    of  recognition,  and  great  and 

sudden  joy. 

"  Marian,"  he  said  faintly,  "  my  wife." 

She  was  on  her  knees  beside  him,  his  weak  head  lying 
in  her  caressing  arms. 

"My  dearest,  my  dearest,  thank  God  ;  my  own,  my  cher- 
ished husband,  forgive  your  erring  wife." 

His  face  lit  with  a  rare  smile,  as  he  looked  up  into  the 
pale,  tear  wet,  passionately  earnest  face. 

"It  is  true  then  what  I  heard,  what  has  brought  me 
home.  You  have  sought  me.  But  Marian,  what  if  I  must 
tell  you  I  am  still  poor,  poor  as  when  we  parted."  She 
.shrunk  away  as  though  he  had  hurt  her.  ^^ 

"  I  have  deserved  that  you  should  say  this  to  me,  she 
said  in  a  stifled  voice,  "  I  have  been  the  basest  of  the  base 


FOR  nETTKR  FOR  WORSE. 

,„  „,,,  pnm-Avliv  should  you  think  me  other  than  heartless 
and  mercenary  'still.    But  oh,  Richard   don't  you  see-I 
love  you  now,  so  dearly  and  truly,  my  husband,  that     can 
never  have  any  life  apart  from  you  more.     Do  not  talk  to 
me  of  poverty-only  tell  me  you  will  never  leave  me  aga.n. 
"Never   again,"   he  answered,  " till  death  us  do  part.   Hut 
Marian,  though  I  am  no  longer  the  millioniare  you  marnecl 
I  do  not  return  to  you  quite  a  beggar.  More  or  less  I  have 
retrieved  the  past,  and  we  can  begin  life  anew  almost  as 
luxuriously  as  we  left  it  off."    Her  face  clouded  for  a 

moment.  ,  _    „„,, 

"  Ah  '  I  am  sorry.  I  wanted  to  atone :  how  can  I  now? 
I  have  been  your  wife  in  the  sunshine.  I  thought  to  show 
you  what  I  could  be  in  the  shadow,  and  now  all  that  is  at 
an  end.     I  can  never  show  you  how  I  have  repented  for- 

that  night."  .,       . 

But  Richard  Fletcher  only  smiles  a^mile  of  great  con- 
tent And  in  the  silence  that  ensues,  there  comes  over 
the  snowy  fields  the  joyful  bells  of  the  blessed  Chr.stmas 
morning,  and  in  their  hearts  both  bless  God  for  the  new 
life,  that  dawns  with  this  holy  day. 


TUE  KND. 


Hi 


'ORSE. 

other  than  heartless 
\,  don't  you  see — I 
husband, that  I  can 
•re.  Do  not  talk  to 
irer  leave  me  again." 
;ath  us  do  part.  Hut 
lioniare  you  married, 

More  or  less  I  have 
life  anew  almost  as 

face  clouded  for  a 

me :  how  can  I  now  ? 

.     I  thought  to  show 

nd  now  all  that  is  at 

have  repented  for — 

i«mile  of  great  con- 
es, there  comes  over 
he  blessed  Christmas 
:ss  God  for  the  new 


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Charlotte  Brorte. 

Bhlrley.-Bytfc  autbor  tf  "  Jane  Eyie."    With  an  illustratioo ••  n 

Ernest  Renan's  French  Works. 

Ceo.  W.  Carleton. 

Fanny  Fern's  Works. 

Folly.,  it  Fii.. •;  ^\''^^itt:t^x:-v:,i:^^i-^^^:r*'  *" 


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a  CO 

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■    «  50 


Oingersnapi 


loth  Billings'       , 
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fi  eo 


!..»«  Veneris  snd  OtU.*  Poetns.-An  elegant  new  edition. . 

f?ench  '  «ve-8on«s.-J;.-cted  iron,  the  be.1  French  authors 

Robert  Dale  Owen. 

The  Debatable  Land  B»lween  this  World  and  the  Ne«t 

Threading  My  wlTyVl-nty-five  years  of  Au»^  

The  Came  of  Whist. 

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MotH'^r  Coose  Set  to  Music. 

Mother  OooseMsIooies..  With  music  for  singing,  and  many  .Uusuations fi  SO 

M.  M.  Pomeroy  "  Brick." 

8en..-<ase,fc...book) •;  s^  I  g?,»r£uV~uo"'"''V.:::.::-.:';  SS 

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Jeseph  Rodman  Drake. 

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The  Culprit  Fay.  Do. 

Richard  B 

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«  75 


6  00 


Was  He  Successful '■••••■■  -i* 
Undercurrents  of  Wall  Street 


I  75 
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,  Kimball. 

Life  in  San  Domlnp). . .. 
Henry  Powers,  Banker. 

To-Day • 

Emllle.    (In  press.) 


ti  so 
I  75 
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Saint  Leger.  -  •      .    ^  ,  ,,« 
Romance  of  Student  Life 

Ceha  E.  Gardner's  Novels. 

,  a.  cniTeated (inpiose).fi  75 

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Mrs.  N.  S.  Emerson. 

Betsey  and  I  are  Out-Ami  other  Poems.    A  Thanksgwrng  Story f  •  5" 

Louisa  M.  Alcott. 

Morning  QIoriea-A  bemtdful  juvenile,  by  the  author  of  "  UtUe  Women.  «i  S. 

Ceo.  A.  Crofutt.  ^      _.   . 

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New  NoMen..  RVni...-lly  W.  H    IJecke...  with  .llustj.t.on.  ov  C.  G.  Bud...  .  o. 

WooJ'iOuUetothoCUyorNewYork.-lleaiaifullyilluslrateJ i  oo 

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Shlftlesa  Folks.-A  brilliant  new  jovcl  by  ►aiime  Smith. »  71 

A  Woman  in  Armor.-A  imwerfid  new  novel  l.y  Mary  Hartwell 1  .« 

Female  Beauty  and  the  Art  of  Pleaeing.— Irom  the  Hiench.... •  50 

T«nsformatlon  Scene.  In  the  United  btatea.-ll;,;  Hiram  ?""«■•-"•,; '  S» 

The  Fall  of  M«n.-A  Darwinian  wtire.     lly  author  "New  Goipel  Peace So 

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Pbamia  Proit'a  Experiencee.— Uy  Mra.  Ann  S.  Stephen.. •  7» 

Miscellaneous  Novels. 

A  Charming  Wldow.-Macouoid.|i  7S  I  Four  Oaka.-Kainba  Thoqie ••  T5 


True  to  Him  Ever.— Ity  1 
The  Forgiving  Kia..— Uy  M. 
Loyal  Unto  Di 


K.  W.  R.. 
Loth. 

,  ieath 

Bee.ie  Wilmcrton.— WeMcon 

Cachet.-Mrs.  M.  J.  R.  Hamilton... 
Mark  Oildcr.leeve.— J.  S,  Sauiade. 

Crown  Jewel..— Mr«.  Moffal 7J 

Avery  Olibun.—Orpheus  C.  Ken...   a  00 
The  Cloven  Foot.—       Do 

Romance  of  Railroad.— Smith 

Fairfax.— John  Ksten  Cooke 

Hilt  to  Hilt.—      Dc> 

Out  of  the  Foam.—  

Hammer  and  Raplei .—    

Kenneth,  My  King.- S.  A.  Brock. . 
Heart  Hungry  .-Ml  J.  WejtntoreUnd 
Clifford  Troupe.—  Do. 


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Among  the  Guerilla..—    Do.       ..   1  so 

Among  the  Pinea.-  Do 50 

My  SoutheraTrienda.—  Do.  ...  i  50 
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Robert  QreathouM.— J.  •'•  Swift.  .  00 
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Little  Wanderera.— Illustrated i  50 

Oenesi.Di.clo.ed.— T.  A.  Davie...  ■  50 
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Ballad  of  Lo?d  rfateman.-With  fllusirations  by  C™A»hanMpap«r)^. «5  cu. 

The  Yachtman'a  Primer.— For  amateur  sailors.    T.  R.  Warren  IFaper^ s»c»- 

Rural  Architecture.-ltj  M.  Field.    With  plans  and  Ulustrations »  ou 

What  I  Know  of  Farming.-By  Horace  Greeley..     ••••:.•:•  i^;:."" \  J? 

TwelveView.  of  Heaven.— By  Twelve  Diatinguished  EngbshDnrtnefc 1  50 

Houae.  Not  Made  With  Handa.— A  juvenile,  illustrated  by  Hopprn 

tapending  Criaia  of  the  South.— By  Hmton  Rowan  Helper. 


I  eo 

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/CATIONS. 


I. 

A.  Dav-iet. %i  9» 

I  the  plolt I  jc 

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liitstnileu I  OB 

lUuttralioni }• 

le.    By  JeaffraMHk....   >  oo 
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i  illustratioiit. i  oa 

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nneaaea.—  Do.  ... 
lold.— C.  L.  Mcllvain... 
ithouaa.— J.  V.  Swift. 

T.  Wal««rth.... 

Da. 

D» 

D*. 


Uy  M. 


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la'  tad*.— Andenon #i  oo 

Pap'r?,— 4  vols,  in  I . . .     a  oo 

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CHARLES  DICKENS'  WORKS. 


A  New  Edition. 

Aman^  the  many  edition*  of  the  works  of  this  greatest  of 
EngliHh  .Novelists,  there  has  not  been  until  now  one  thut  entirely 
latislies  the  puMic  demand. —V/ithout  exception,  tley  each  have 
tome  stroll?  distinctive  objection,— either  the  form  and  liimensinns 
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The  illustrations  are  by  the  original  artists  chosen  ly  Charles 
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This  lieautiful  new  eiliiion  is  complete  in  15  volumes— at  the 
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I. PICKWICK  PAPERS  AND  CATALOOUK. 

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The  first  volume— Pickwick  Papers— contains  an  «lph»i>)etic»J 
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nuiiNRH.— AniiiTMKNT.   flAcairii 

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TM  ii|tiin— 
Imdiim  at  Dinhk*. 

DiNNP.N    llAIIITH.— OARTIHO. 

Mannkiim  at  HiTrraa.— Baua 
UOUMINO  Pahxim.  -Pkihim. 

BVKNINIt    rAHTIKM. —  DASK'U. 
I'lllVATK   THIATUICAUI. 
ItKl-KPIIONII.— KNOAllKyKMn, 
MAIinlAitK  (^KRCMilNIKa 
INVITAI  lONIl.— DllKHHKH. 
.IIRIIICHMAIIM  — I'HKHKNW. 
TUAVKLUNII    KTIgrilfn'B. 
I'llllLIU   I'llOMKNAIIB. 

UooMTiiT  Vikin.— OiTi  ViiifS. 


»«- 


ICciMlliig,  and  Sponklng. 

iMi'hlnK  not  only  tlis  befflnner,  bnt  loi 
t  ilmlnkliln  ■M.-oniplixhiiianM.  Por  yinitb 
Ic;  and  (orwIultH,  whvthiir  iirufeMlunaUy 
dUpoDW  with.  *,*  l>rloo  |1.6U.  Among 
I — 
•  |B4T.— WnAl  WOT  TO  Bat.— How  TO 

,  i  BKOIM.-  0ADTION8.-nRLIVKBt.  -WlUT- 

ma  A  Hprrcii.— FiHUT  I.khhon».— ro»- 
:Ilic   BrKAKiNo.— Iiicmvkrt.    Acnoii. 

OHATOBT    or   TIIR    rtlLPIT.-ComHlBl- 

TioN.— Tub  nAn.— Rkadino  of  Wrr  h 

HuMl>n.— TH.t  I'LATrOHM.— CONBIBUO- 
TIOM   ur  A  Bl'KKOH. 

their  Itind  evtrpHMUked;  flfk,  titutbU 
Me.  Every  p*rton  of  KMM  lAouU  JMW- 
I  OeUgMed  atth  ih*m. 
ion  of  tli(*e  tory  imimlar  \mr-\*  baa  Sut 
OND  EniTioM,"  Ihrtio  little  Tolumefi,  e'.o 
uiilMimcly  bound  In  a  box.  Prioa  f/8.00, 
poUageJirt,  on  receipt  of  p  ^M,  \r, 

then,  Uadison  Sqnare,  lT*y  ToiL 


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